DORA  THORNE. 


BY 

CHARLOTTE   M.   BRAEME. 


M.  A.  DONOHUE  &  GO 
CHICAGO 


DORA  THORNE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

4<  The  consequences  of  folly  seldom  end  with  its  origi- 
nator," said  Lord  Earle  to  his  son.  "Rely  upon  it, 
Ronald,  if  you  were  to  take  this  most  foolish  and  unad- 
visable  step,  you  would  bring  misery  upon  yourself  and 
every  one  connected  with  you.  Listen  to  reason." 

"  There  is  no  reason  in  prejudice,"  replied  the  young 
man,  haughtily.  "You  can  not  bring  forward  one  valid 
reason  against  my  marriage." 

Despite  his  annoyance,  a  smile  broke  over  Lord  Earle's 
grave  face. 

"  I  can  bring  a  thousand  reasons,  if  necessary,"  he  re- 
plied. "  I  grant  everything  you  say.  Dora  Thome  is  very 
pretty;  but,  remember,  she  is  quite  a  rustic  and  unformed 
beauty — and  I  almost  doubt  whether  she  can  read  or  spell 
properly.  She  is  modest  and  good,  I  grant,  and  I  never 
heard  one  syllable  against  her.  Ronald,  let  me  appeal  to 
your  better  judgment — are  a  moderate  amount  of  rustic 
prettiness  and  shy  modesty  sufficient  qualifications  for  your 
wife,  who  will  have  to  take  your  mother's  place?" 

"  They  are  quite  sufficient  to  satisfy  me,"  replied  the 
young  man. 

"  You  have  others  to  consider,"  said  Lord  Earle, 
quickly. 

"  I  love  her,"  interrupted  his  son;  and  again  his  father 
smiled. 

"  We  know  what  it  means,"  he  said,  "  when  boys  of 
nineteen  talk  about  love.  Believe  me,  Ronald,  if  I  were 
to  consent  to  your  request,  you  would  be  the  first  in  after 
years  to  reproach  me  for  weak  compliance  with  your 
youthful  folly." 

"You  would  not  call  it  folly, "retorted  Ronald,  his  face 

2135116 


4  DOHA  THOKNE. 

flushing  hotly,  "  if  Dora  were  an  heiress,  or  the  daughter 
of  some — " 

"  Spare  me  a  long  discourse,"  again  interrupted  Lord 
Earle.  "  You  are  quite  right  ;  if  the  young  girl  in  ques- 
tion belonged  to  your  own  station,  or  even  if  she  were  near 
it,  that  would  be  quite  a  different  matter.  I  am  not  an- 
noyed that  you  have,  as  you  think,  fallen  in  love,  or  that 
you  wish  to  marry,  although  you  are  young.  I  am  an- 
noyed that  you  should  dream  of  wishing  to  marry  a  simple 
rustic,  the  daughter  of  my  lodge-keeper.  It  is  so  su- 
premely ridiculous  that  I  can  hardly  treat  the  matter  seri- 
ously." 

"  It  is  serious  enough  for  me,"  returned  his  son  with  a 
long,  deep  sigh.  "  If  I  do  not  marry  Dora  Thorne,  I  shall 
never  marry  at  all." 

"  Better  that  than  a  mesalliance"  said  Lord  Earle, 
shortly. 

"She  is  good,"  cried  Ronald — "good  and  fair,  modest 
and  graceful.  Her  heart  is  pure  as  her  face  is  fair.  What 
mesalliance  can  there  be,  father  ?  I  never  have  believed 
and  never  shall  believe  in  the  cruel  laws  of  caste.  In  what 
is  one  man  better  than  or  superior  to  another  save  that  he 
is  more  intelligent  or  more  virtuous  ?" 

"I  shall  never  interfere  in  your  politics,  Ronald,''  said 
Lord  Earle,  laughing  quietly.  "  Before  you  are  twenty- 
one  you  will  have  gone  through  many  stages  of  that  fever. 
Youth  is  almost  invariably  liberal,  age  conservative. 
Adopt  what  line  of  politics  you  will,  but  do  not  bring 
theory  into  practice  in  this  instance." 

"  I  should  consider  myself  a  hero,"  continued  the  young 
man,  "if  I  could  be  the  first  to  break  through  the  tram- 
mels of  custom  and  the  absurd  laws  of  caste." 

"You  would  not  be  the  first,"  said  Lord  Earle,  quietly. 
"  Many  before  you  have  made  unequal  marriages ;  many 
will  do  so  after  you  ;  but  in  every  case  I  believe  regret 
and  disappointment  followed." 

"They  would  not  in  my  case,'1  said  Ronald,  eagerly  ; 
"  and  with  Dora  Thorne  by  my  side,  I  could  do  anything; 
without  her,  I  can  do  nothing." 

Lord  Earle  looked  grieved  at  the  pertinacity  of  his  son. 

"  Most  fathers  would  refuse  to  hear  all  this  nonsense, 
Ronald,"  he  said,  gently.  "  I  libten,  and  try  to  convince 
you  by  reasonable  arguments  that  the  step  you  seem  bent 


DORA    THOBNE.  5 

npon  taking  is  one  that  will  entail  nothing  \mt  misery.  I 
have  said  no  angry  word  to  you,  nor  shall  I  do  so.  I  tell 
you  simply  it  can  not  be.  Dora  Thome,  my  lodge-keep- 
er's daughter,  is  no  fitting  wife  for  my  son,  the  heir  of 
Earlescourt.  Come  with  me,  Ronald;  I  will  show  you 
further  what  1  mean. " 

They  went  together,  the  father  and  son,  so  like  m  face 
yet  so  dissimilar  in  mind.  They  had  been  walking  np  and 
down  the  broad  terrace,  one  of  the  chief  beauties  of  Earles- 
court. The  park  and  pleasure-grounds,  with  flushed  sum* 
mer  beauty,  lay  smiling  around  them.  The  song-of  hun« 
dreds  of  birds  trilled  through  the  sweet  summer  air,  the 
water  of  many  fountains  rippled  musically,  rare  flowers 
charmed  the  eye  and  sent  forth  sweet  perfume;  but  neither 
song  of  birds  nor  fragrance  of  flowers — neither  sunshine 
nor  music — brought  any  brightness  to  the  grave  faces  of 
the  father  and  son. 

With  slow  steps  they  quitted  the  broad  terrace,  and  en- 
tered the  hall.  They  passed  through  a  long  suite  of  mag- 
nificent apartments,  up  the  broad  marble  staircase,  through, 
long  corridors,  until  they  reached  the  picture-gallery,  one 
»f  the  finest  in  England.  Nearly  every  great  master  was 
represented  there.  Murillo,  Guido,  Raphael,  Claude  Lor- 
raine, Salvator  Rosa,  Correggio,  and  Tintoretto.  The 
lords  of  Earlescourt  had  all  loved  pictures,  and  each  of 
them  had  added  to  the  treasures  of  that  wonderful  gallery. 

One  portion  of  the  gallery  was  set  aside  for  the  portrait* 
of  the  family.  Grim  old  warriors  and  fair  ladies  hung  side 
by  side;  faces  of  marvelous  beauty,  bearing  the  signs  of 
noble  descent,  shone  out  clearly  from  their  gilded  frames. 

"  Look,  Ronald,"  Lord  Earle  said,  laying  one  hand 
upon  his  shoulder,  "  you  stand  before  your  ancestors  now. 
Yours  is  a  grand  old  race.  England  knows  and  honors  it. 
Look  at  these  pictured  faces  of  the  wives  our  fathers  chose. 
There  is  Lady  Sybella  .Earle;  when  one  of  Cromwell's 
soldiers  drew  his  dagger  to  slay  her  husband,  the  truest 
friend  King  Charles  ever  had,  she  flung  herself  before  him, 
and  received  tho  blow  in  his  stead.  She  died,  and  he  lived 
•—noble  and  beautiful,  ia  she  not?  Now  look  at  the  Lady 
Alicia — this  fair  patrician  lady  smiling  by  the  side  of  her 
grim  lord;  she,  at  tho  risk  of  her  life,  helped  him  to  fly 
from  prison,  where  he  lay  condemned  to  death  for  some 
great  political  wrong.  She  saved  him,  and  for  her  sake  ho 


6  DOBA    THOBNE. 

received  pardon.  Here  is  the  Lady  Helena — she  is  not 
beautiful,  but  look  at  the  intellect,  the  queenly  brow,  the 
aoul-lit  eyes!  She,  I  need  not  tell  you,  was  a  poetess. 
Wherever  the  English  language  was  spoken,  her  verses  were 
read — men  were  nobler  and  better  for  reading  them.  The 
ladies  of  our  race  were  such  that  brave  men  may  be  proud 
of  them.  Is  it  not  so,  Ronald?" 

"  Yes/'  he  replied,  calmly;  "  they  were  noble  worn 
Lord  Earle  then  led  his  son  to  a  large  painting,  up  a 
which  the  western  sunbeams  lingered,  brightening  the  fair 
face  they  shone  upon,  until  it  seemed  living  and  smiling. 
A  deep  and  tender  reverence  stole  into  Lord  Earle's  voice 
as  he  spoke: 

"  No  fairer  or  more  noble  woman  ever  ruled  at  Earles- 
court  than  your  mother,  Ronald.  She  is  the  daught 

*  a    hundred    earls,'   high-bred,    beautiful,   and   refined. 
Now,  let  me  ask  you,  in  the  name  of  common  sense,  do 
you  wish  to  place  my  lodge-keeper's  daughter  by  your 
mother's  side?     Admit  that  she  is  pretty  and  good — is  it  in 
the  fitting  order  of  things  that  she  should  be  here?" 

For  the  first  time,  in  the  heedless,  fiery  course  of  his  love, 
Ronald  Earle  paused.  He  looked  at  the  serene  and  noble 
face  before  him,  the  broad  brow,  the  sweet,  arched  lip .-•, 
the  refined  patrician  features,  and  there  came  to  him  t!  o 
memory  of  another  face,  charming,  shy  and  blushing,  with 
a  rustic,  graceful  beauty  different  from  the  one  before  hha 
as  sunlight  compared  to  moonlight.  The  words  falter;  d 
upon  his  lips— instinctively  he  felt  that  pretty,  blushing 
Dora  had  no  place  there.  Lord  Earle  looked  relieved  as 
he  saw  the  doubt  upon  his  son's  face. 

"  You  see  it,  Ronald,"  he  cried.     "  Your  idea  of  the 

*  fusion  '  of  races  is  well  enough  in  theory,  but  it  will  not 
do  orought  into  practice.     I  have  been  patient  with  you— 
I  have  treated  you,  not  as  a  school-boy  whose  head  is  half 
turned  by  his  first  love,  but  as  a  sensible  man  endowed 
with  reason  and  thought.     Now  give  me  a  reward.     Prom- 
ise me  here  that  you  will  make  a  brave  effort,  give  up  all 
foolish  thoughts  of  Dora  Thorne,  and  not  see  her  again. 
Go  abroad  for  a  year  or  two — you  will  soon  forget  this  boy- 
ish folly,  and  bless  the  good  sense  that  has  saved  you  from 
ft.     Will  you  promise  me,  Ronald?" 

**  I  can  not,  father,"  he  replied,  "  for  I  h»ve  promised 


DORA    THORNE.  7 

Dora  to  make  her  my  wife.  1  can  not  break  my  word. 
You  yourself  could  never  counsel  that." 

**  In  this  case  1  can,"  said  Lord  Earle,  eagerly.  "  That 
promise  is  not  binding,  even  in  honor;  the  girl  herself,  if 
she  has  any  reason,  can  not  and  does  not  expect  it " 

"  She  believed  me,"  said  Ronald,  simply.  "  Besides,  1 
love  her,  father. " 

"  Hush,"  replied  Lord  Earle,  angrily,  "  I  will  listen  to 
ho  more  nonsense.  There  is  a  limit  to  my  patience.  Once 
and  for  all,  Ronald,  I  tell  you  that  I  decidedly  forbid  any 
mention  of  such  a  marriage;  it  is  degrading  and  ridiculous. 
1  forbid  you  to  marry  Dora  Thome;  if  you  disobey  me,  you 
must  bear  the  penalty." 

"  And  what  would  the  penalty  be?"  asked  the  heir  of 
Earlescourt,  with  a  coolness  and  calmness  that  irritated  his 
lather. 

"  One  you  would  hardly  wish  to  pay,"  replied  the  earl. 
"  If,  in  spite  of  my  prayers,  entreaties,  and  commands,  you 
persist  in  marrying  the  girl,  I  will  never  look  upon  your 
V°6  again.  My  home  shall  be  no  longer  your  home.  You 
fnil  lose  my  love,  my  esteem,  and  what  perhaps  those  who 
Aavt)  lured  you  to  ruin  may  value  still  more,  my  wealth. 
1  •  ;ui  not  disinherit  you;  but,  if  you  persist  in  this  folly,  I 
will  not  allow  you  one  farthing.  You  shall  be  to  me  at 
one  dead  until  I  die  myself." 

"  I  have  three  hundred  a  year,"  said  Ronald,  calmly; 
44  that  my  godfather  left  me." 

Lord  Earle's  face  now  grew  white  with  anger. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  you  have  that;  it  would  not  find 
Ton  in  gloves  and  cigars  now.  But,  Ronald,  you  can  not 
be  serious,  my  boy.  I  have  loved  you — I  have  been  so 
proud  of  you — you  can  not  mean  to  defy  and  wound  me." 

His  voice  faltered,  and  his  son  looked  up  quickly,  touched 
to  the  heart  by  his  father's  emotion. 

"  Give  me  vour  consent,  father,"  he  cried,  passionately. 
'*  Sfou  know  1  love  you,  and  I  love  Dora;  1  can  not  give 
up  Dora." 

"Enough,"  said  Lord  Earle;  "words  seem  useless. 
Yon  hear  my  final  resolve;  1  shall  never  change  it — no 
after  repentance,  no  entreaties,  will  move  me.  Choose  be- 
i  your  parents,  your  home,  your  position,  and  the  love 
of  this  fair,  foolish  girl,  of  whom  in  a  few  months  yon  will 
6e  tired  and  weary.  < /noose  between  us.  or  no 


8  CORA    THORKE. 

promise;  you  have  refused  to  give  it.  1  appeal  no  more 
to  your  affection;  I  leave  you  to  decide  for  yourself.  I 
might  coerce  and  force  you,  but  1  will  not  do  so.  Obey 
me,  and  I  will  make  your  happiness  my  study.  Defy  me, 
and  marry  the  girl — then,  in  life,  I  will  never  look  upon 
your  face  again.  Henceforth  I  will  have  no  son;  you  will 
not  be  worthy  of  the  name.  There  is  no  appeal.  I  leave 
you  now  to  make  your  choice;  this  is  my  final  resolve. " 


CHAPTER  IL 

THE  Earles,  of  Earlescourt,  were  one  of  the  oldest  fami- 
lies in  England.  The  "  Barony  of  Earle  "  is  mentioned  in 
Ibs  early  reigns  of  the  Tudor  kings.  They  never  appeared 
to  have  taken  any  great  part  either  in  politics  or  warfare. 
The  annals  of  the  family  told  of  simple,  virtuous  lives; 
they  contained,  too,  some  few  romantic  incidents.  Some 
of  the  older  barons  had  been  brave  soldiers;  and  there  were 
stories  of  hair-breadth  escapes  and  great  exploits  by  flood 
and  field.  Two  or  three  had  taken  to  politics,  and  had 
suffered  through  their  eagerness  and  zeal;  but,  as  a  rule, 
the  barons  of  Earle  had  been  simple,  kindly  gentlemen, 
contented  to  live  at  home  upon  their  own  estates,  satisfied 
-with  the  duties  they  found  there,  careful  in  the  alliances 
they  contracted,  and  equally  careful  in  the  bringing  up  and 
establishment  of  their  children.  One  and  all  they  had  beeu 
zealous  cultivators  of  the  fine  arts.  Earlescourt  was  al- 
most overcrowded  wilh  pictures,  statues,  and  works  of  art. 

Son  succeeded  father,  inheriting  with  title  and  estate  the 
same  kindly,  simple  disposition,  and  the  same  tastes,  until 
Rupert  Earle,  nineteenth  baron,  with  whom  our  story 
opens,  became  Lord  Earle.  Simplicity  and  kindness  were 
not  his  characteristics.  He  was  proud,  ambitious,  and  in- 
flexible; he  longed  for  the  time  when  the  Earles  should  be- 
come famous,  when  their  name  should  be  one  of  weight  in 
council.  In  early  life  his  ambitious  desires  seemed  about 
to  be  realized.  He  was  but  twenty  when  he  succeeded  his 
father,  and  was  an  only  child,  clover,  keen  and  ambitious. 
In  his  twenty-first  year  he  married  Lady  Helena  Brooklyn, 
the  daughter  of  one  of  the  proudest  peers  in  Britain, 
There  lay  before  him  a  fair  and  useful  life.  His  wife  waa 
an  elegant,  accomplished  woman,  who  knew  the  world 


DORA  TIIOKXE.  9 

its  ways — who  had,  from  her  earliest  childhood,  been  ac- 
customed to  the  highest  and  best  society.  Lord  Earle 
often  told  her,  laughingly,  that  she  would  have  made  an 
excellent  embassadress — her  manners  were  so  bland  and 
gracious;  she  had  the  rare  gift  of  appearing  interested  in 
every  one  and  in  everything. 

With  such  a  wife  at  ihe  head  of  his  establishment,  Lord 
Earle  hoped  for  great  things.  He  looked  to  a  prosperous 
career  as  a  statesman;  no  honors  seemed  to  him  too  high, 
no  ambition  too  great.  But  a  hard  fate  lay  before  him. 
He  made  one  brilliant  and  successful  speech  in  Parliament 
— a  speech  never  forgotten  by  those  who  heard  it,  for  its 
astonishing  eloquence,  its  keen  wif,  its  bitter  satire.  Never 
again  did  his  voice  rouse  alike  friend  and  foe.  He  was 
seized  with  a  sudden  and  dangerous  illness  which  brought 
him  to  the  brink  of  the  grave.  After  a  long  and  desperate 
struggle  with  the  "  grim  enemy, "he  slowly  recovered, but 
all  hope  of  public  life  was  over  for  him.  The  doctors  said 
he  might  live  to  be  a  hale  old  man  if  he  took  proper  pre- 
cautions; he  must  live  quietly,  avoid  all  excitement,  and 
never  dream  again  of  politics. 

To  Lord  Earle  this  seemed  like  a  sentence  of  exile  or 
death.  His  wife  tried  her  utmost  to  comfort  and  console 
him,  but  for  some  years  he  lived  only  to  repine  at  his  lot. 
Lady  Helena  devoted  herself  to  him.  Earlescourt  became 
the  center  and  home  of  famous  hospitality;  men  of  letters, 
artists,  and  men  of  note  visited  there,  and  in  time  Lord 
Earle  became  reconciled  to  his  fate.  All  his  hopes  and 
his  ambitions  were  now  centered  in  his  son,  Ronald,  a  fine 
noble  boy,  like  his  father  in  every  respect  save  one.  He 
had  the  same  clear-cut  Saxon  face.with  clear,  honest  eyes 
and  proud  lips,  the  same  fair  hair  and  stately  carriage, 
but  in  one  respect  they  differed.  Lord  Earle  was  firm  and 
inflexible;  no  one  ever  thought  of  appealing  against  his 
decision  or  trying  to  change  his  resolution.  If  "  my  ' 
had  spoken,  the  matter  was  settled.  Even  Lady  Helena 
knew  that  any  attempt  to  influence  him  was  vain.  Ronald, 
on  the  contrary,  could  be  stubborn,  but  not  firm.  He  was 
more  easily  influenced;  appeal  to  the  better  part  of  his 
nature,  to  his  affection  or  sense  of  duty,  was  seldom  made 
in  vain. 

No  other  children  gladdened  Lord  Earle's  heart,  and  all 
his  hopes  were  centered  in  his  son.  For  the  second  time 


10  JJOBA   THOBNE. 


in  his  life  great  hopes  and  ambitions  rose  within  him. 
What  he  had  not  achieved  his  son  would  do;  the  honor  he 
could  no  longer  seek  might  one  day  be  his  son's.  There 
was  something  almost  pitiful  in  the  love  of  the  stern,  dis- 
appointed man  for  his  child.  He  longed  for  the  time  when 
Ronald  would  be  of  age  to  commence  his  public  career. 
He  planned  for  his  son  as  he  had  never  planned  for  him« 
self."" 

Time  passed  on,  and  the  heir  of  Earlescourt  went  to  Ox- 
ford, as  his  father  had  done  before  him.  Then  came  the 
second  bitter  disappointment  of  Lord  Earle's  life.  He  him- 
self was  a  Tory  of  the  old  school.  Liberal  principles  were  an 
abomination  to  him;  he  Hated  and  detested  everything  con- 
nected with  Liberalism.  It  was  a  great  shock  when  Ronald 
Burned  from  college  a  "  full-fledged  Liberal."  With  hia 
nbual  keenness  he  saw  that  all  discussion  was  useless. 

"  Let  the  Liberal  fever  wear  out/'  said  one  of  his 
fviends;  "  you  will  find,  Lord  EarJe,  that  all  young  men 
iavor  it.  Conservatism  is  the  result  of  age  and  experience. 
By  the  time  your  sou  takes  a  position  in  the  world  he  will 
have  passed  through  many  stages  of  Liberalism." 

Lord  Earle  devoutly  believed  it.  When  the  first  shock 
of  his  disappointment  was  over,  Ronald's  political  zeal 
began  to  amuse  him.  He  liked  to  see  the  boy  earnest  in 
everything.  He  smiled  when  Ronald,  in  his  clear,  young 
voice,  read  out  the  speeches  of  the  chief  of  his  party.  He 
smiled  when  the  young  niau,  eager  to  bring  theory  into 
practice,  fraternized  with  the  tenant  farmers,  and  visited 
aamilies  from  whom  his  father  shrunk  in  aristocratic  dread. 

There  was  little  doubt  that  in  those  days  Ronald  Earle 
believed  himself  called  to  a  great  mission.  He  dreamed  of 
the  time  when  the  barriers  of  caste  would  be  thrown  down, 
when  men  would  have  equal  rights  and  privileges,  when  the 
aristocracy  of  intellect  and  virtue  would  take  precedence 
of  noble  birth,  when  wealth  would  be  more  equally  dis- 
tributed, and  the  days  when  one  man  perished  of  hunge? 
while  another  reveled  in  luxury  should  cease  to  be.  His 
dreams  were  neither  exactly  Liberal  nor  Radical;  they 
were  simply  Utopian.  Even  then,  when  he  was  most  zeal- 
ous, had  any  one  proposed  to  him  that  he  should  inaugu- 
rate the  new  state  of  things,  and  be  the  first  to  divide  his 
fortune,  the  futility  of  his  theories  would  have  struck  him 
jnore  plainly.  Mingling  in  good  society,  the  inf^-nce  of 


DORA    THORITE.  2] 

clever  men  and  beautiful  women  would,  Loid  Earle  be* 
lieved,  convert  his  sou  in  time.  He  did  not  oppose  him, 
knowing  that  all  opposition  would  but  increase  his  zeaL 
It  was  a  bitter  disappointment  to  him,  but  he  bore  it  brave- 
iy,  for  he  never  ceased  to  hope. 

A  new  trouble  was  dawning  far  Lord  Earle,  one  far 
more  serious  than-  the  Utopian  dream  of  his  son;  of  all  his 
sorrows  it  was  the  keenest  and  the  longest  felt  Ronald 
fell  in  love,  and  was  bent  on  marrying  a  simple  rustio 
beauty,  the  lodge-keeper's  daughter. 

lescourt  was  one  of  the  fairest  spots  in  fair  and  tran- 
quil England.  It  stood  in  the  deep  green  heart  of  the 
land,  in  the  midst  of  one  of  the  bonnv,  fertile  midland 
counties. 

The  Hall  was  surrounded  by  a  large  park,  where  the  3eer 
browsed  under  the  stately  spreading  trees,  where  there  were 
flowery  dells  and  knolls  that  would  charm  an  artist;  a  wide 
brook,  almost  broad  and  deep  enough  to  be  called  a  river, 
rippled  through  it. 

K.irlescourt  was  noted  for  its  trees;  a  grand  old  cedar 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  park;  the  shivering  aspen,  the 
graceful  elm,  the  majestic  oak,  the  tall,  fiowetihg  chestnut 
were  all  seen  to  greatest  perfection  there. 

Art  had  done  much,  Nature  more,  tn  beautify  the  home 
of  the  Earles.  Charming  pleasure-gardens  were  laid  oui 
with  unrivaled  skill;  the  broad,  deep  lake  was  half  hidden 
by  the  drooping  willows  bending  over  it,  and  the  white 
water-lilies  that  lay  on  its  tranquil  breast. 

The  Hull  itself  was  a  picturesque,  gray  old  building,  with 
turn-is  rove  red  with  ivy,  and  square  towers  of  modern 
build;  there  were  deep  oriel  windows,  stately  old  rooms 
that  told  of  the  ancient  race,  and  cheerful  modern  apart' 
ments  replete  with  modern  comfort. 

One  of  the  great  beauties  of  Earlesconrt  was  the  broad 
terrace  that  ran  along  one  side  of  the  house;  the  view  from 
it  was  unequaled  for  quiot  loveliness.  The  lake  shone  in 
the  distance  from  between  the  trees;  the  perfume  from  tha 
hawthorn  hedges  filled  the  air,  the  fountains  rippled  mer- 
rily in  tho  sunshine,  and  the  flowers  bloomed  in  sweet  sum- 
mer beauty. 

Lord  Earle  loved  lii-<  1.  iiutiful  home;  he  spared  no  ex- 
pense in  imp  •<]  the  time  came  when  Earlesj- 
court  «'.••-•  known  as  a  moael  estate. 


12  J>ORA    THORNE. 

One  thing  he  did  of  which  he  repented  till  the  hour  of 
his  death.  On  the  western  side  of  the  park  he  built  a  new 
lodge,  and  installed  therein  Stephen  Thorne  and  his  wife, 
little  dreaming  as  he  did  so  that  the  first  link  in  what  was 
to  be  a  fatal  tragedy  was  forged. 

Ronald  was  nineteen,  and  Lord  Earle  thought,  his  son's 
college  career  ended,  he  should  travel  for  two  or  three 
years.  He  could  not  go  with  him,  but  he  hoped  that  sur- 
veillance would  not  be  needed,  that  his  boy  would  be  wise 
enough  and  manly  enough  to  take  his  first  steps  in  life 
alone.  .  At  college  he  won  the  highest  honors;  great  things 
were  prophesied  for  Ronald  Earle.  They  might  have  been 
accomplished  but  for  the  unfortunate  event  that  darkened 
Earlescourt  with  a  cloud  of  shame  and  sorrow. 

Lord  and  Lady  Earle  had  gone  to  pay  a  visit  to  an  old 
friend,  Sir  Hugh  Oharteris,  of  Greenoke.  Thinking  Ron- 
ald would  not  reach  home  until  the  third  week  in  June, 
they  accepted  Sir  Hugh's  invitation,  and  promised  to 
spend  the  first  two  weeks  in  June  with  him.  But  Ronald 
altered  his  plans;  the  visit  he  was  making  did  not  prove  to 
be  a  very  pleasant  one,  and  he  returned  to  Earlescourt 
two  days  after  Lord  and  Lady  Earle  had  left  it.  His 
lather  wrote  immediately,  pressing  him  to  join  the  party 
at  Greenoke.  He  declined,  saying  that  after  the  hard 
study  of  the  few  last  months  he  longed  for  quiet  and  rest. 

Knowing  that  every  attention  would  be  paid  to  his  son's 
comfort,  Lord  Earle  thought  but  little  of  the  matter.  In 
after  years  he  bitterly  regretted  that  he  had  not  insisted 
upon  his  son's  going  to  Greenoke.  So  it  happened  that 
Ronald  Earle,  his  college  career  ended,  his  future  lying  like 
a  bright,  unruffled  dream  before  him,  had  two  weeks  to 
spend  alone  in  Earlescourt. 

The  first  day  was  pleasant  enough.  Ronald  went  to  so** 
the  horses,  inspected  the  kennels,  gladdened  the  game- 
keeper's heart  by  his  keen  appreciation  of  good  sport,  rowed 
on  the  lake,  played  a  solitary  game  at  billiards,  dined  in 
great  state,  read  three  chapters  of  "  Mill  on  Liberalism," 
four  of  a  sensational  novel,  and  fell  asleep  satisfied  with 
that  day,  but  rather  at  a  loss  to  know  what  he  should  do 
on  the  next. 

It  was  a  beautiful  June  day;  no  cloud  was  in  the  smiling 
heavens,  the  sun  shone  bright,  and  Nature  looked  so  fair 
and  tempting  that  it  vas  impossible  to  remain  in-doors» 


DORA    THOKXE.  18 

Out  in  the  gardens  the  summer  air  seemed  to  thrill  with 
the  song  of  the  birds.  Butterflies  spread  their. bright 
wings  and  coquetted  with  the  fragrant  blossoms;  busy 
humming  bees  Duried  themselves  in  the  white  cups  of  the 
lily  and  the  crimson  heart  of  the  rose. 

Ronald  wandered  through  the  gardens;  the  delicate 
golden  laburnum  blossoms  fell  at  his  feet,  and  he  sat  down 
beneath  a  large  acacia.  The  sun  was  warm,  and  Ronald 
thought  a  dish  of  strawberries  would  be  very  acceptable. 
lie  debated  within  himself  for  some  time  whether  he  should 
return  to  the  house  and  order  them,  or  walk  down  to  the 
fruit  garden  and  gather  them  for  himself. 

\\liiit  impulse  was  it  that  sent  him  on  that  fair  June 
morning,  when  all  Nature  sung  of  love  and  happiness,  to 
the  spot  where  be  met  his  fate? 


CHAPTER  IIL 

THE  strawberry  gardens  at  Earlescourt  were  very  exten- 
sive. Far  down  among  the  green  beds  Ronald  Earle  caw 
6  young  girl  kneeling,  gathering  the  ripe  fruit,  which  she 
placed  in  a  large  basket  lined  with  leaves,  and  he  went 
down  to  her. 

"  I  should  like  a  few  of  those  strawberries,"  he  said, 
gently,  and  she  raised  to  his  a  face  he  never  forgot.  In- 
voluntarily he  raised  his  hat,  in  homage  to  her  youth  an  1 
her  shy,  sweet  beauty.  "  For  whom  are  you  gathering 
these?  he  aaked,  wondering  who  she  was,  and  whence  she 
came. 

In'a  moment  the  young  girl  stood  up,  and  made  the 
pretHe.  t,  and  most  graceful  of  courtesies. 

"  Tluy  are  for  the  housekeeper,  sir,"  she  replied;  and 
ho:-  voice  was  musical  and  clear  as  a  silver  bell. 

'  Then  may  I  ask  who  you  are?"  continued  Ronald. 

"  I  am  Dora  Thome,"  she  replied,  "  the  lodge-keeper'a 
daughter." 

"  How  is  it  I  have  never  seen  you  before?"  he  asked. 

"  Because  I  have  lived  always  with  my  aunt,  at  Dale," 
she  replied.  "  I  only  came  home  last  year." 

"  I  see,"  said  Ronald.  "  Will  you  give  me  some  ot 
strawberries?"  he  ask^d.  **  They  look  so  ripe  and 
tempting." 


14  DORA    THORKE. 

He  sat  down  on  one  of  the  garden  chairs  and  watched 
her.  The  pretty  white  fingers  looked  so  fair,  contrasted 
with  the  crimson  fruit  and  green  leaves.  Deftly  aud  quick- 
ly she  contrived  a  small  basket  of  leaves,  aud  filled  it  with 
fruit.  She  brought  it  to  him,  and  then  for  the  first  time 
Ronald  saw  her  clearly,  and  that  one  glance  was  fatal  to 
him. 

She  was  no  calm,  grand  beauty.  She  had  a  shy,  sweet, 
blushing  face,  resembling  nothing  so  much  as  a  rosebud, 
with  fresh,  ripe  lips;  pretty  little  teeth,  which  gleamed  like 
white  jewels;  large  dark  eyes,  bright  as  stars,  and  veiled 
by  long  lashes;  dark  hair,  soft  and  shining.  She  was  in- 
deed so  fair,  so  modest  aud  graceful,  that  Ronald  Earle 
was  charmed. 

"  It  must  be  because  you  gathered  them  that  they  are  so 
nice,"  ho  said,  taking  the  little  basket  from  her  hands. 
"  Rest  awhile,  Dora — you  must  be  tired  with  this  hot  sun 
shining  full  upon  you.  Sit  here  under  th^  shade  of  this 
apple-tree. " 

He  watched  the  crimson  blushes  that  dyed  her  fair  young 
face.  She  never  onoe  raised  her  dark  eyes  to  his.  He  had 
seen  beautiful  and  stately  ladies,  but  none  so  coy  or  be- 
witching as  this  pretty  maiden.  The  more  he  looked  at 
her  the  more  he  admired  her.  She  had  no  delicate  patrician 
loveliness,  no  refined  grace;  but  for  glowing,  shy,  fresh 
beauty,  who  could  equal  her? 

So  the  young  heir  of  Earlescourt  sat,  pretending  to  en- 
joy the  strawberries,  but  in  reality  engrossed  by  the  charm- 
ing figure  before  him.  She  neither  stirred  nor  spoke. 
Under  the  boughs  of  the  apple-tree,  with  the  sunbeams 
falling  upon  her,  she  made  a  fair  picture,  and  his  eyes  were 
riveted  upon  it. 

It  was  all  very  delightful,  and  very  wrong.  Ronald 
should  not  have  talked  to  the  lodge-keeper's  daughter,  and 
B\veet,  rustic  Dora  Thorne  should  have  known  better. 
But  they  were  young,  and  such  days  come  but  seldom,  and 
pass  all  too  quickly. 

"Dora  Thorne,"  said  Ronald,  musingly  —  '*  what  a 
pretty  name!  How  well  it  suits  you!  It  is  quite  a  little 
song  in  itself." 

She  smiled  with  delight  at  his  words;  then  her  shy,  dark 
eyes  were  rui  r1  for  a  moment,  and  quickly  dropped  again- 

"  ; : .  i  Tennyson^  '  Dora?'  '0'  be  as! 


DORA    THORNE.  15 

•*Ko,"  she  replied — "  I  have  little  timo  ror  reading." 

'*  1  will  tell  you  the  story,"  he  said,  patronizingly. 
M  Ever  since  1  read  it  1  have  had  an  ideal  *  Dora,'  and  you 
realize  my  dream." 

She  had  not  the  least  idea  what  he  meant;  bat  when  he 
recited  the  musical  words,  her  fancy  and  imagination  were 
stirred;  she  saw  the  wheat-field,  the  golden  corn,  the  little 
chiM  and  its  anxious  mother.  When  Ronald  ceased  speak« 
ing,  he  saw  her  hands  were  clasped  and  her  lips  quivering. 

"  Did  you  like  that?"  he  asked,  with  unconscious  pat- 
ronage. 

"  So  much!"  she  replied.  "  Ah,  he  must  be  a  great 
man  who  wrote  those  words;  and  you  remember  them  all." 

Her  simple  admiration  flattered  and  charmed  him.  He 
recited  other  verses  for  her,  and  the  girl  listened  in  a  trance 
of  delight.  The  sunshine  and  western  wind  brought  no 
warning  to  the  heir  of  Earlescourt  that  he  was  forging  the 
first  link  of  a  dreadful  tragedy;  he  thought  only  of  the 
|hy,  blushing  beauty  and  coy  grace  of  the  young  girl! 

'Suddenly  from  over  the  trees  there  came  the  sound  of 
the  great  bell  at  the  Hall.  Then  Dora  started. 

"  It  is  one  o'clock  I"  she  cried.  "  What  shall  I  do? 
Mrs.  Morton  will  be  a  igry  with  me." 

**  Angry!"  said  lio  mid,  annoyed  at  this  sudden  br^ak- 
up  of  his  Arcadian  dream.  "  Angry  with  you!  For 
what?" 

"  She  is  waiting  fot  the  strawberries,"  replied  conscious 
Dora,  "  and  my  basket  is  not  half  full." 

It  was  a  now  idea  t<  him  that  any  one  should  dare  to  be 
angry  with  this  pretty,  gentle  Dora. 
I  will  help  you/   he  said. 

In  less  than  a  mini  te  the  heir  of  Earlescourt  was  kneel* 
ing  by  Dora  Thorne,  gathering  quickly  the  ripe  strawber 
ries,  and  the  basket  vas  soon  filled. 

"  There,"  said  Rcoald,  "  you  need  not  fear  Mrs.  Morton 
now,  Dora.  You  must  go,  I  suppose;  it  seems  hard  to 
leave  this  bright  sur/shine  to  go  in-doors!" 

"  I — I  would  rather  stay,  said  Dora,  frankly;  "  but  I 
have  much  to  do." 

**  Shall  you  be  liere  to-morrow?"  be  asked. 

*'  Yes,"  she  replied;  "  it  will  take  me  all  the  weer  it 
gather  strawberr/es  for  the  housekeeper. " 

M  'iooH-bye,  >>ra,"  be  said;  "  I  shall  we 


16  DORA    THOKNE, 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  her  little  fingers  trembled  and 
fluttered  in  his  grasp.  She  looked  so  happy,  yet  so  fright- 
ened, so  charming,  yet  so  shy.  He  could  have  clasped  her 
in  his  arms  at  that  moment,  and  have  said  he  loved  her; 
but  Ronald  was  a  gentleman.  He  bowed  over  the  little 
hand,  and  then  relinquished  it.  He  watched  the  pretty, 
airy  figure,  as  the  young  girl  tripped  away. 

"  Shame  on  all  artificial  training!"  said  Ronald  to  him- 
self. "  What  would  our  fine  ladies  give  for  such  a  face? 
Imagine  beauty  without  coquetry  or  affectation.  The  girl's 
heart  is  as  pure  as  a  stainless  lily;  she  never  heard  of  '  a 
grand  match'  or  a  'good  parti.'  If  Tennyson's  Dora 
was  like  her,  I  do  not  wonder  at  anything  that  happened." 

Instead  of  thinking  to  himself  that  he  had  done  a  foolish 
thing  that  bright  morning,  and  that  his  plain  duty  was  to 
forget  all  about  the  girl,  Ronald  lighted  his  cigar,  and  be- 
gan to  dream  of  the  face  that  had  charmed  him. 

Dora  took  the  fruit  to  Mrs.  Morton,  and  received  no 
reprimand;  then  she  was  sent  home  to  the  cottage,  her 
work  for  the  day  ended.  She  had  to  pass  through  the 
park.  Was  it  the  same  road  she  had  trodden  this  morn- 
ing? What  caused  the  new  and  shining  glory  that  had 
fallen  on  every  leaf  and  tree?  The  blue  heavens  seemed 
to  smile  upon  her;  every  flower,  every  song  of  the  bright 
birds  had  a  new  mearting.  What  was  it?  Her  own  heart 
was  beating  as  it  had  never  beaten  before;  her  face  was 
flushed,  and  the  sweet,  limpid  eyes  shone  with  a  new  light. 
What  was  it?  Then  she  came  to  the  brook-side  and  sat 
down  on  the  violet  bank. 

The  rippling  water  was  singing  a  new  song,  something 
of  love  and  youth,  of  beauty  and  happiness — something  of 
a  new  and  fairy-like  life;  and  with  the  faint  ripple  and  fall 
of  the  water  came  back  to  her  the  voice  that  had  filled  her 
ears  and  touched  her  heart.  Would  she  ever  again  forget 
the  handsome  face  that  had  smiled  so  kindly  upon  her? 
Surely  he  was  a  king  among  men,  and  he  had  praised  her, 
said  her  name  was  like  a  song,  and  that  she  was  like  the 
Dora  of  the  beautiful  poem.  This  grand  gentleman,  with 
the  clear,  handsome  face  and  dainty  white  hands,  actually 
admired  her. 

So  Dora  dreamed  by  the  brook-side,  and  she  was  to  see 
him  again  and  again;  she  gave  no  thought  to  a  cold,  dark 
time  when  she  should  see  him  no  more.  To-morrow  the 


£OBA   THOKBJS.  1? 

gnn  would  shine,  the  birds  sing,  and  she  should  see  him 
once  again, 

Dora  never  remembered  bow  that  happy  day  passed 
Good  Mrs.  Thome  looked  at  her  child,  and  sighed  to  think 
how  pretty  she  \v;is  and  how  soon  that  sweet,  dimpled  face 
won!  ire. 

D.'ru's  first  proceeding  was  characteristic  enough,  She- 
vent  to  her  own  room  ar.d  locked  the  door;  then  she  put 
the  cracked  little  mirror  in  the  sunshine,  and  proceeded  tft 
ex  uuine  her  face.  She  wanted  to  see  why  Ronald  Earle 
B'lmin.'d  her;  she  wondered  much  at  this  new  power  she 

.1  possessed  of;  she  placed  the  glass  on  the  table,  and 
s:it  down  to  study  her  own  face.  She  saw  that  it  was  very 
lair:  the  coloring  was  delicate  and  vivid,  like  that  of  the 
heart  of  a  rose;  the  fresh,  red  lips  were  arched  and  smil- 

lio  dark,  shy  eyes,  with  their  long,  silken  lashes,  were 
bright  and  clear;  a  pretty,  dimpled,  smiling  face  told  of  » 

,  simple,  loving  nature — that  was  all;  there  was  no 
intellect,  no  soul,  no  high-bred  refinement;  nothing  but  the 
charm  of  bright,  half-startled  beauty. 

Dora  \v:is  half  puzzled.  She  had  never  thought  much 
of  her  own  appearance.  Having  lived  always  with  sensi- 
ble, simple  people,  the  pernicious  language  of  flattery  waa 
unknown  to  her.  It  was  with  a  half-guilty  thrill  of  delight 
that  she  for  the  first  time  realized  the  charm  of  her  own. 
sweet  face. 

The  sunny  hours  flew  by.  Dora  never  noted  them;  dhe 
thought  only  of  the  morning  past  and  the  morning  to 

.  while  Ronald  dreamed  of  her  almost  unconsciously. 
Sh«  had  been  a  bright  feature  in  a  bright  day;  his  artistic 

hud  been  gratified,  his  eyes  had  been  charmed.     The 

\  picture  haunted  him,  and  he  remembered  with  pleas* 

hat  on  the  morrow  ho  should  see  the  shy,  .- 
a^'uin.     No  thought  of  harm  or  wrong  even  entered  his 

.  He  did  not  think  that  he  had  been  imprudent.  He 
had  recited  a  beautiful  poem  to  a  pretty,  coy  girl,  and  in  a 
grand,  lordly  way  he  believed  himself  to  have  performed  a 

'  action. 

The  morning  came,  and  they  brought  bright,  blushing 
Dora,  to  her  work;  aguin  tlv  little  white  fingers  glistened 

the  crimson  oerries.     Then   Dora  heard  him  coming. 

^  footsteps,  and   her  face  crew  "  ruby  red. 
Be  made  DO  nse  of  finding  her  accidentally 


18  DORA    THORNE. 

"Good-morning,  Dora/'  he  said;  "you  look  as  bright 
as  the  sunshine  and  as  fair  as  the  flowers.  Put  away  the 
basket;  I  have  brought  a  book  of  poems>  and  mean  to  read 
some  to  you.  I  will  help  you  with  your  work  afterward." 

Dora,  nothing  loath,  sat  down,  and  straightway  they 
were  both  in  fairy-land.  He  read  industriously,  stealing 
every  now  and  then  a  glance  at  his  pretty  companion.  She 
knew  nothing  of  what  he  was  reading,  but  his  voice  made 
sweeter  music  than  she  had  ever  heard  before. 

At  length  the  book  was  closed,  and  Ronald  wondered 
what  thoughts  were  running  through  his  companion's  sim- 

Ele,  artless  mind.  So  he  talked  to  her  of  her  daily  life, 
er  work,  her  pleasures,  her  friends.  As  he  talked  he 
grew  more  and  more  charmed;  she  had  no  great  amount 
of  intellect,  no  wit  or  keen  powers  of  repartee,  but  the 
girl's  love  of  nature  made  her  a  poetess.  She  seemed  to 
know  all  the  secrets  of  the  trees  and  the  flowers;  no  beauty 
escaped  her;  the  rustle  of  green  leaves,  the  sighs  of  the 
western  wind,  the  solemn  hush  of  the  deep-green  woods, 
the  changing  tints  of  the  summer  sky  delighted  her. 
Beautiful  words,  embodying  beautiful  thoughts,  rippled 
over  the  fresh,  ripe  lips.  She  knew  nothing  else.  She  had 
seen  no  pictures,  read  no  books,  knew  nothing  of  the  fine 
arts,  was  totally  ignorant  of  all  scholarly  lore,  but  deep  in 
her  heart  lay  a  passionate  love  for  the  fair  face  of  nature. 

It  was  new  to  Eonald.  He  had  heard  fashionable  ladies 
speak  of  everything  they  delighted  in.  He  had  never  heard 
of  "music  in  the  fall  of  rain-drops,"  or  character  in 
flowers. 

Once  Dora  forgot  her  shyness,  and  when  Ronald  said 
something,  she  laughed  in  reply.  How  sweet  and  pure 
that  laughter  was — like  a  soft  peal  of  silver  bells!  When 
Ronald  Earle  went  to  sleep  that  night,  the  sound  haunted 
his  dreams. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

EVERY  morning  brought  the  young  heir  of  Earlescourt 
to  the  bright  sunny  gardens  where  Dora  worked  among 
the  strawberries.  As  the  days  passed  she  began  to  lose 
something  of  her  shy,  startled  manner,  and  laughed  and 
talked  to  him  as  she  would  have  done  to  her  own  brother. 
His  vanity  was  gratified  by  t*ie  sweetest  homage  of  all,  the 


DORA  THORNE.  19 

unconscious,  unspoken  love  and  admiration  of  the  young 
girl.  He  liked  to  watch  the  blushes  on  her  face,  and  the 
quivering  of  her  lips  when  she  caught  the  first  sound  of 
his  coming  footsteps.  He  liked  to  watch  her  dark  eyes 
droop,  and  then  to  see  them  raised  to  his  with  a  beautiful, 
startled  light. 

Insensibly  his  own  heart  became  interested.  At  first  he 
had  merely  thought  of  passing  a  pleasant  hour;  then  he 
admired  Dora,  and  tried  to  believe  that  reading  to  her  was 
an  act  of  pure  benevolence;  but,  as  the  days  passed  on, 
something  stronger  and  sweeter  attracted  him.  He  began 
to  love  her — and  she  was  his  first  love. 

Wonderful  to  say,  these  long  tctc-a-tetcs  had  not  attracted 
observation.  No  rumor  of  them  escaped,  so  that  no  thorn 
appeared  in  this  path  of  roses  which  led  to  the  brink  of  a 
precipice. 

It  wanted  three  days  until  the  time  settled  for  the  re- 
turn of  Lord  and  Lady  Earle.  Sir  Harry  Laurence,  of 
Holtham  Hall,  asked  Ronald  to  spend  a  day  with  him  ; 
and,  having  no  valid  excuse,  he  consented. 

"I  shall  not  see  you  to-morrow,  Dora,"  he  said.  "  I  am 
going  away  for  the  day." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  startled  face.  One  whole  day 
without  him  !  Then,  with  a  sudden  deadly  pain,  came  the 
thought  that  these  golden  days  must  end  ;  the  time  must 
come  when  she  should  see  him  no  more.  The  pretty,  dim- 
pled face  grew  pale,  and  a  dark  shadow  came  into  the 
clear  eyes. 

"  Dora,"  cried  Ronald,  "  why  do  you  look  so  frightened? 
What  is  it  ?" 

She  gave  him  no  answer,  but  turned  away.  He  caught 
her  hands  in  his  own. 

"Are  you  grieved  that  I  am  going  away  for  one  whole 
day  ?"  he  asked.  But  she  looked  so  piteous  and  ?o 
startled  that  he  waited  for  no  reply.  "  I  shall  continue  to 
see  you,"  he  resumed.  "  I  could  not  let  any  day  pass  with- 
out that." 

"And  afterward,"  she  said,  simply,  raising  her  eyes  to 
his  full  of  tears. 

Then  Ronald  paused  abruptly — he  had  never  given  one 
thought  to  the  "afterward."  Why,  of  course  strawberries 
would  not  grow  forever — it  would  not  always  be  summer. 
Lord  Earle  would  soon  be  back  again,  and  then  he  must 


30  DORA    1HOKNE, 

go  abroad.  Where  would  Dora  be  then?  He  did  not  like 
the  thought  —  it  perplexed  him.  Short  as  was  the  time  ha 
laad  known  her,  Dora  had,  in  some  mysterious  way,  grown 
to  be  a  part  of  himself.  He  could  not  think  of  a  day 
wherein  he  should  not  see  her  blushing,  pretty  face,  and 
hear  the  music  of  her  words.  He  was  startled,  and  clasped 
ier  little  bands  more  tightly  within  his  own. 

"  You  world  not  like  to  lose  me,  Dora?"  he  skid, 
gently. 

"  No,"  she  replied;  and  then  tears  fell  from  her  dark 


Poor  Ronald  !  had  he  been  wise,  he  would  have  flown 
then;  but  he  bent  his  head  over  her,  and  kissed  the  teara 
away.  The  pretty  rounded  cheek,  so  soft  and  child-like, 
lie  kissed  again,  and  then  clasped  the  slight  girlish  figure 
in  his  arms. 

"  Do  not  shed  another  tear,  Dora,"  he  whispered;  "  we 
will  not  lose  each  other.  I  love  you,  and  you  shall  be  my 
wife." 

One  minute  before  he  spoke  the  idea  had  not  even. 
crossed  his  mind  ;  it  seemed  to  him  afterward  that  another 
voice  had  spoken  by  his  lips. 

"  Your  wife!"  ehe  cried,  looking  at  him  in  some  alarm. 
"  Ah,  no!  You  are  very  kind  and  good,  but  that  could 
never  be." 

"  Why  not?"  he  asked. 

"  Because  you  are  so  far  above  me,"  replied  the  girl. 
*'  I.  and  mine  are  servants  and  dependents  of  yours.  We 
are  not  equal;  I  must  learn  to  forget  you,"  sobbed  Dora, 
"  and  break  my  own  heart!" 

She  could  not  have  touched  Ronald  more  deeply;  in  a 
moment  he  had  poured  forth  a  torrent  of  words  that 
amazed  her.  Fraternity  and  equality,  caste  and  folly,  his 
mission  and  belief,  his  love  and  devotion,  were  all  mingled 
in  one  torrent  of  eloquence  that  simply  alarmed  her. 

"  .Never  say  that  again,  Dora,"  he  continued,  his  fair, 
boyish  face  flushing.  '  You  are  the  equal  of  a  queen  upon 
her  throne;  you  are  fair  and  true,  sweet  and  good.  Wnat 
.«  a  queen  more  than  that?" 

"  A  queen  knows  more,"  sigh--:"!  Dora.  "  I  know  noth« 
ing  m  all  the  wide  world.  " 

"  Then  I  will  teach  yon,"  he  said.  "  Ah,  Dora,  yon 
fcnow  moughJ  You  have  beautiful  thoughts,  and  yo» 


DORA    THOKNE.  JW 

clothe  tnem  in  beautiful  words.  Do  not  turn  from  me; 
say  you  love  me  and  will  be  my  wife.  I  love  you,  Dora- 
do not  make  me  unhappy.'* 

"  1  would  not  make  you  unhappy,"  she  said,  *'  for  the 
whole  world;  if  you  wish  me  to  love  you — oh,  you  know  1 
love  you — if  you  wish  me  to  go  away  and  forget  you,  1  wif 
do  my  best. 

But  the  very  thought  of  it  brought  tears  again.  She 
looked  so  pretty,  so  bewildered  between  sorrow  and  joy,  so 
dazzled  by  happiness,  and  yet  so  piteously  uncertain,  that 
Ronald  was  more  charmed  than  ever. 

"  My  darling  Dora,"  he  said,  "  you  do  love  me.  Your 
eyes  speak,  if  your  lips  do  not  tell  me.  Will  you  bo  my 
wife?  1  can  not  live  without  you." 

It  was  the  prettiest  picture  in  the  world  to  see  the  color 
return  to  the  sweet  face.  Ronald  bent  his  head,  and  heard 
the  sweet  whisper. 

"  You  shall  never  rue  your  trust,  Dora/'  he  said,  proud- 
ly; but  she  interrupted  him. 

"  What  will  Lord  Earle  say?"  she  asked;  and  again 
Ronald  was  startled  by  that  question. 

"  My  father  can  say  nothing,"  he  replied.  **  I  am  old 
enough  to  please  mysolf,  and  this  is  a  free  country.  I  shall 
introduce  you  to  him,  Dora,  and  tell  him  you  have  prom- 
ised to  be  my  wife.  No  more  tears,  love.  There  is  noth- 
ing but  happiness  before  us." 

And  so  he  believed.     He  could  think  of  nothing,  care 
for  nothing  but  Dora — her  pretty  face,  her  artless,  simjple 
ways,  her  undisguised  love  for  him.     There  was  but  one 
If"  was  young,  and  it  was  his  first  love;  yet  de- 
spite his  1  soppiness,  his  pride,  his  independetice,  he  did 
often  wondi"-  in  what  words  he  should  U-ll  his  father  that 
IK-  hud  premised   to  marry  the  lodge-keeper's  dau 
Tin  re  were  even  times  when  he  shivered,  as  one  seized 
sudden  cold,  at  the  thought. 

ThM  four  days  passed  like  a  long,  bright  dream.  It  was 
H  pri'tty  romance,  but  sadly  m  -a  pretty  summer 

idyl.     They  were  but  boy  and  girl.     Dora  met  Ronald  in 
;i;irk,   by  the  brook-side,  and  in  the  ^  ulows 

vlviv  the.  white  hawthorn  grow.  They  tulkcd  of  but  one 
thinjr,  their  Invu.  Ronald  ncvor  tired  of  watching  Dora's 
fan-  Taw;  and  j>  o«ry  WHYS:  she  never  wearied  of  to'iin^  him 


8%  DORA    THORHE. 

over  and  over  again,  in  a  hundred  different  vays,  ho* 
noble  and  kind  he  was,  and  how  dearly  she  loved  him. 

Lord  Earle  wrote  to  say  that  he  should  be  home  on  tha 
Thursday  evening,  and  that  they  were  bringing  back  a 
party  of  guests  with  them. 

"  There  will  be  no  time  to  tell  my  father  just  at  prea* 
ent,"  said  Eonald;  "  so,  Dora,  we  must  keep  our  secrett 
it  will  not  do  to  tell  your  father  before  1  tell  mine. " 

They  arranged  to  keep  the  secret  until  Lord  Earle  should 
be  alwie  again.  They  were  to  meet  twice  every  day — in. 
the  early  morning,  while  the  dew  lay  on  the  grass,  and  in 
the  evening,  when  the  Hall  would  be  full  of  bustle  andi 
gayety. 

Ronald  felt  guilty — he  hardly  knew  how  or  why — when 
his  father  commiserated  him  for  the  two  lonely  weeks  he 
had  spent.  Lonely!  He  had  not  felt  them  so;  they  had 
passed  all  too  quickly  for  him.  How  many  destinies  were 
settled  in  that  short  time! 

There  was  little  time  for  telling  his  secret  to  Lord  Earle. 
The  few  guests  who  had  returned  to  Earlescourt  were  men 
®f  note,  and  their  host  devoted  himself  to  their  entertain- 
ment 

Lady  Earle  saw  some  great  change  in  her  son.  She 
fancied  that  he  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  out-of-doors.  She 
asked  him  about  it,  wondering  if  he  had  taken  to  studying 
botany,  for  late  and  early  he  never  tired  of  rambling  in  the 
park.  She  wondered  again  at  the  flush  that  crimsoned  hia 
face;  but  the  time  was  coming  when  she  would  understand 
it  all. . 

It  is  probable  that  if  Ronald  at  that  time  had  had  as  much 
of  Dora's  society  as  he  liked,  he  would  soon  have  discovered 
his  mistake,  and  no  great  harm  would  have  been  done; 
but  the  foolish  romance  of  foolish  meetings  had  a  charm 
for  him.  In  those  hurried  interviews  he  had  only  time  to 
think  of  Dora's  love — he  never  noted  her  deficiencies;  he 
was  charmed  with  her  tenderness  and  grace;  her  artless 
affection  was  so  pretty;  the  difference  between  her  and 
those  with  whom  he  was  accustomed  to  talk  was  so  great; 
her  very  ignorance  had  a  piquant  charm  for  him.  So  they 
went  on  to  their  fate. 

One  by  one  Lord  Earle's  guests  departed,  yet  Ronald 
bad  not  told  his  secret.  A  new  element  crept  into  his  love, 
ani  urged  him  on.  Walking  one  day  through  the  park 


DORA    THOENF  *3 

with  LIB  father  they  overtook  Dora's  father.  A  young 
man  was  with  him  and  the  two  were  talking  earnestly  to- 
gether, so  earnestly  that  they  never  heard  the  two  gentle- 
men; and  in  passing  by  Ronald  distinguished  the  words, 
"  You  give  me  your  daughter.  Mr.  Thorne,  and  trust  me 
to  make  her  happy." 

Ronald  Earle  turned  quickly  to  look  at  the  speaker.  He 
saw  before  him  a  young  man,  evidently  a  well-to-do  farmer 
f  r  in  his  appearance,  with  a  calm,  kind  face  and  clear  and 
honest  eyes;  and  he  was  asking  for  Dora — Dora  who  was 
to  be  his  wife  and  live  at  Earlescourt.  He  could  hardly 
control  his  impatience;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  evening 
would  never  come. 

Dinner  was  over  at  last  Lord  Earle  sat  with  Sir  Harry 
Laurence  over  a  bottle  of  claret,  and  Lady  Earle  was  in 
the  drawing-room  and  had  taken  up  her  book.  Ronald 
hastened  to  the  favorite  trysting-place,  the  brook- side; 
pora  was  there  already,  and  he  saw  that  her  face  was  still 
wet  with  tears.  She  refused  at  first  to  tell  him  her  sor- 
row. Then  she  whispered  a  pitiful  little  story,  that  made 
her  lover  resolve  upon  some  rash  deeds. 

Ralph  Holt  had  been  speaking  to  her  father,  and  had 
asked  her  to  marry  him.  She  had  said  "  No;"  but  her 
mother  had  wept,  and  her  father  had  grown  angry,  and 
had  said  she  should  obey  him. 

"He  has  a  large  farm,"  said  Dora,  with  a  bitter  sigh. 
"  He  says  I  should  live  like  a  great  lady,  and  have  nothing 
to  do.  He  would  be  kind  to  my  father  and  mother;  but  I 
do  not  love  him,"  she  added. 

..„'  her  tender  little  hands  round  Ronald's  arm/*  I 
do  not  love  him,"  she  sobbed;  **  and,  Ronald,  1  do  love 
yon." 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  her  pretty,  tear-bedewed  face, 
all  the  chivalry  of  his  nature  aroused  by  her  words. 

"  You  shall  be  my  wife,  Dora,"  he  said,  proudly,  '*  and 
not  his.  This  very  evening  1  will  tell  my  father,  and  ask 
his  consent  to  our  marriage.  My  mother  is  sure  to  love 
you — she  is  so  kind  and  gracious  to  every  one.  Do  not 
tremble,  my  darling;  neither  Ralph  Holt  nor  any  one  else 
shall  take  you  from  me." 

She  was  soon  comforted !  there  was  no  bound  or  limit  te 
her  faith  in  Ronald  Earle. 

"Go  homo  now,"  he  said,  "and  to-morrow  my  father 


24  DORA    THORITE. 

himself  shall  see  you.  I  will  teach  that  yonng  farmer  hia 
place.  No  more  tears,  Dora — our  troubles  will  end  to- 
night* 

tie  went  with  her  down  the  broad  walk,  and  then  re- 
tunie.l  to  the  Hail.  He  walked  very  proudly,  with  his 
gallant  head  erect,  paying  to  himself  that  this  was  u  five 
country  and  he  could  do  what  he  liked;  but  for  all  thai 
_,is  heart  beat  loudly  when  he  entered  the  drawing-room 
..i~i  found  Lord  ami  Lady  Eurlc.  They  looked  up  smil- 
ingly at  him,  all  unconscious  that  their  beloved  sou,  the 
heir  of  Earlescourt,  was  there  to  ask  permission  to  marry 
the  lodge-keeper's  daughter. 


CHAPTER   V. 

RONALD  EARLE  had  plenty  of  courage — no  young  1:.  TO 
ever  led  a  forlorn  hope  with  more  bravery  than  he  dis- 
played in  the  interview  with  his  parents,  which  might  have 
daunted  a  bolder  man.  As  he  approached,  Lady  Earle 
rai:--<l  Uer  eyes  with  a  languid  ?mile. 

"  Out  a^ain,  R.mald!"  ?he  said.  "  P>ir  Harry  Laurence 
left  his  adieus  for  you.  I  think  the  park  possesses  some 
peculiar  fascination.  Have  you  been  walking  quickly? 
Your  face  is  Hushed." 

He  made  no  reply,  but  drew  near  to  his  mother;  he  benfc 
over  h'jr  and  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips. 

"I  am  come  to  tell  you  something,"  he  said.  "Fa- 
ther, will  you  listen  to  me?  1  ask  your  permission  to 
marry  Dora  Thorne,  one  of  the  fairest,  sweetest  girls  in 
England." 

His  voice  never  faltered,  and  the  brave  young  face  never 
quailed.  Lord  Earle  looked  at  him  in  uttei  amazement. 

"To  marry  Dora  Thome!"  he  said.  "And  who,  in 
the  name  of  reason,  is  Dora  Thorue?" 

"  The  lodge-keeper's  daughter,"  replied  Ronald,  stout- 
ly. "  I  love  her,  father,  "and  she  loves  me. " 

He  was  somewhat  disconcerted  when  Lord  Earle,  for  all 
reply,  broke  into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  laughter.  He 
had  expected  a  storm — expostulations,  perhaps,  and  re- 
proaches— anything  but  this. 

"  You  can  pot  be  serious,  Ronald,"  said  his  mother* 
smiling, 


BORA 

-  I  am  so  much  iu  earnest,'*  he  replied,  "  that  I  would 
give  up  all  1  have  in  the  world — my  life  itself,  for  Dora. " 

Thin  Lord  Earle  ceased  laughiug,  and  looked  earnestly 
at  the  handsome,  Hushed  face. 

44  No/'  said  he,  "  you  can  not  be  serious.  You  dare  not 
ask  your  mother  to  receive  a  servant's  daughter  as  her  own 
child.  Your  jest  is  in  bad  taste,  Ronald. " 

"It  is  no  jest,"  he  replied.  "We  Earles  are  always 
terribly  in  earnest.  1  have  promised  to  marry  Dora  Thome, 
and,  with  your  permission,  I  intend  to  keep  my  word." 

An  angry  flush  rose  to  Lord  Earle's  face,  but  he  con- 
trolled his  impatience. 

"  In  any  case,"  he  replied,  quietly,  '*  you  are  too  young 
to  think  of  marriage  yet.  If  you  had  chosen  the  daughter 
of  a  duke,  1  should,  for  the  present,  refuse." 

*'  I  shall  bo  twenty  in  a  few  months,"  said  Ronald, 
**  and  I  am  willing  to  wait  until  then." 

i  v  Earle  laid  her  white  jeweled  hand  on  her  son's 
shoulder,  and  said,  gently: 

**  My  dear  Ronald,  have  you  lost  your  senses?  Tell  me, 
who  ia  Dora  Thorno?"  She  saw  tears  shining  in  his  eyes; 
his  brave  young  face  touched  her  heart.  **  Tell  me,"  she 
continued,  "  who  is  she?  Where  have  you  seen  her? 
What  is  she  like?" 

"  She  is  so  beautiful,  mother,"  he  said,  "  that  1  am  sure 
you  would  love  her;  she  is  as  fair  and  sweet  as  she  is  modest 
and  true.  I  met  her  in  the  gardens  some  weeks  ago,  anl 
have  met  her  every  day  since." 

Lord  and  Lady  Earle  exchanged  a  glance  of  dismay 
which  did  not  escape  Ronald. 

"  Why  have  you  not  told  us  of  this  before?"  asked  his 
father,  angrily. 

44 1  asked  her  to  be  my  wife  while  you  were  from  home,'; 
replied  Ronald.     *4  She  promised  and  I  have  only 
waiting  until  our  guests  left  us  and  you  had  more  time. " 

"  Is  it  to  see  Dora  Thorne  that  you  have  been  out  so  con- 
stantly?" asked  Lady  Earle. 

"  Yes,  I  could  not  let  a  day  pass  without  seeing  her," 
he  replied;  "  it  would  be  like  a  day  without  sunshine." 

44  Does  anyone  else  know  of  this  folly?"  asked  Lord 
Earle,  angrily. 

44  No;  you  may  bo  quite  sure,  father,  I  should  tell  you 
before  1  told  anv  on«  else,  '*  replied  Ronald. 


26  DOKA    THORNE. 

They  looked  at  him  in  silent  dismay,  vexed  and  amazed 
at  what  he  had  done — irritated  at  his  utter  folly,  yet  forced 
to  admire  his  honor,  his  courage,  his  truth.  Both  felt  that 
some  sons  would  have  carefully  concealed  such  a  love  affair 
from  them.  They  were  proud  of  his  candor  and  integrity, 
although  deploring  his  folly. 

"  Tell  us  all  about  it,  Ronald,"  said  Lady  Earle. 

Without  the  least  hesitation,  Ronald  told  them  every 
word;  and  despite  their  vexation,  neither  could  help  smil- 
ing— it  was  such  a  pretty  story — a  romance,  all  sunshine, 
smiles,  tears,  and  flowers.  Lord  Earle's  face  cleared  as  he 
listened,  and  he  laid  one  hand  on  his  boy's  shoulder. 

"  Ronald/'  said  he,  "  we  shall  disagree  about  your  love; 
but  remember,  I  do  full  justice  to  your  truth.  After  all, 
the  fault  is  my  own.  I  might  have  known  that  a  young 
fellow  of  your  age,  left  all  alone,  was  sure  to  get  into  mis' 
chief;  you  have  done  so.  Say  no  more  now;  I  clearly  anc< 
distinctly  refuse  my  consent.  I  appeal  to  your  honor  that 
you  meet  this  young  girl  no  more.  We  will  talk  of  it  an- 
other time." 

When  the  door  closed  behind  him,  Lord  and  Lady  Earle 
looked  at  each  other.  The  lady's  face  was  pale  and  agi- 
tated. 

"  Oh,  Rupert,"  she  said,  "  how  brave  and  noble  he  is! 
Poor  foolish  boy!  how  proud  he  looked  of  his  absurd  mis- 
take. We  shall  have  trouble  with  him,  1  foresee!" 

"  I  do  not  think  so,"  replied  her  husband.  "  Valentine 
Charteris  will  be  here  soon,  and  when  Ronald  sees  her  he 
will  forget  this  rustic  beauty." 

"  It  will  be  better  not  to  thwart  him,"  interrupted  Lady 
Earle.  "  Let  nie  manage  the  matter,  Rupert.  I  will  go 
down  to  the  lodge  to-morrow,  and  persuade  them  to  send 
the  girl  away;  and  then  we  will  take  Ronald  abroad,  and 
he  will  forget  all  about  it  in  a  few  months." 

All  night  long  the  gentle  lady  of  Earlescourt  was 
troubled  by  strange  dreams — by  vague,  dark  fears  that 
haunted  her  and  would  not  be  laid  to  rest. 

**  Evil  will  come  of  it,"  she  said  to  herself — "  evil  and 
Borrow.  This  distant  shadow  saddens  me  now." 

The  next  day  she  went  to  the  lodge,  and  asked  for  Dora. 
She  half  pardoned  her  son's  folly  when  she  saw  the  pretty 
dimpled  face,  the  rings  of  dark  hair  lying  on  the  white 
neck.  The  girl  was  indeed  charming  and  modest,  but  un« 


DORA    THORNB.  *5? 

fitted — cS,  how  unfitted !— ever  to  be  Lady  Earle.  She  was 
graceful  as  a  wild  flower  is  graceful;  but  she  had  no  man- 
ner, uo  dignity,  no  cultivation.  She  stood  blushing,  con- 
fused, aud  speechless,  before  the  "  great  lady." 

"  You  know  what  I  want  you  for,  Dora/'  said  Lady 
Earle,  kindly.  "  My  son  has  told  us  of  the  acquaintance 
between  you.  I  am  come  to  say  it  must  cease.  I  do  not 
wish  to  hurt  or  wound  you.  Your  own  sense  must  tell 
you  that  you  can  never  be  received  by  Lord  Earle  and  my- 
self as  our  daughter.  We  will  not  speak  of  your  inferiority 
in  birth  and  position.  You  are  not  my  son's  equal  in  re- 
finement or  education;  he  would  soon  discover  that,  and 
thv  of  you." 

Dora  spoke  no  word,  the  tears  falling  from  her  bright 
eyes;  this  time  there  was  no  young  lover  to  kiss  them 
away.  She  made  no  reply  and  when  Lady  Earle  sent  for 
her  father,  Dora  ran  away;  she  would  hear  no  more. 

44 1  know  nothing  of  it,  my  lady,"  said  the  worthy  lodge- 
keeper,  who  was  even  more  surprised  than  his  master  had 
been.  "  Young  Ralph  Holt  wants  to  marry  my  daughter, 
and  I  have  said  that  she  shall  be  his  wife.  1  never  dreamed 
that  she  knew  the  young  master;  she  has  not  mentioned 
his  name. " 

•Lady  Earle's  diplomacy  succeeded  beyond  her  most  san- 
guine expectations.  Stephen  Thorne  and  his  wife,  although 
rather  dazzled  by  the  fact  that  their  daughter  had  capti- 
vated the  future  Lord  Earlescourt,  let  common  sense  aud 
reason  prevail,  aud  saw  the  disparity  and  misery  such  a 
marriage  would  cause.  They  promised  to  be  gentle  and 
kind  to  Dora,  not  to  scold  or  reproach  her,  and  to  allow 
some  little  time  to  elapse  before  urging  Ralph  Holt's 
claims. 

When  Lady  Earle  rose,  she  placed  a  twenty-pound  bank* 
note  in  the  hands  of  Stephen  Thorne,  saying: 

"  You  are  sending  Dora  to  Eastham;  that  will  cover  the 
expenses." 

*'  I  could  not  do  that,  my  lady,"  said  Stephen,  refusing 
to  take  the  money.  '*  1  can  not  sell  poor  Dora's  love." 

Then  Lady  Earle  held  out  her  delicate  white  hand,  and 
ii;in  bowed  low  over  it.  Before  the  sun  set  that  even. 
in._r.  Stephen  Thorne  ha  1  taken  Dora  to  Eastham,  where 
shf  wus  to  remain  until  KonaM  hu'l  gone  abroad. 

For  •  seemed  as  though  tho  ?»-.orm  bed  blown 


Xo  DORA    THORNE. 

over.  There  was  one  angry  interview  between  father  and 
sou,  when  Ronald  declared  that  sending  Dora  away  was  a 
breach  of  faith,  and  that  he  would  find  her  out  and  marry 
her  how  and  when  he  could.  Lord  Earle  thought  his  words 
were  but  the  wild  folly  of  a  boy  deprived  of  a  much-desired 
toy.  He  did  not  give  them  serious  heed. 

The  story  of  Earlescourt  might  have  been  different,  had 
not  Ronald,  while  still  amazed  and  irritated  by  his  father's 
cool  contempt,  encountered  Ralph  Holt.  They  met  at  the 

fate  leading  from  the  fields  to  the  -high-road;  it  was  closed 
etweeu  them,  and  neither  could  make  way. 

"  I  have  a  little  account  to  settle  with  you,  my  young 
lordling,"  said  Ralph,  angrilj.  "  Doves  never  mate  with 
eagles;  if  you  want  to  marry,  chose  one  of  your  own  class, 
and  leave  Dora  Thome  to  me.  " 

**  Dora  Thome  is  mine/'  said  Ronald,  haughtily. 

"  She  will  never  be,"  was  the  quick  reply.  "  See,  young 
master,  I  have  loved  Dora  since  she  was  a  pretty,  bright- 
eyed  child.  Her  father  lived  near  my  father's  farm  then. 
1  have  cared  for  her  all  my  life — I  do  not  know  that  I  have 
ever  looked  twice  at  another  woman's  face.  Do  not  step 
in  between  me  ami  my  love.  The  world  is  wide,  and  you 
can  choose  where  you  will— do  not  rob  tue  of  Dora 
Thori.e." 

There  wus  a  mournful  dignity  in  the  man's  face  that 
touched  Ronald. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,"  he  said,  "  if  you  love  Dora;  fot 
she  will  bo  my  wife." 

"  Never!"  cried  Ralph.  "  Since  you  will  not  listen  to 
fair  words,  I  defy  you.  1  will  go  to  Eastham  and  never 
leave  Dora  again  until  she  will  be  my  own." 

High,  angry  words  passed  between  them,  but  Ralph  in 
tis  pjtssiuii  had  told  the  secret  Ronald  had  longed  to  know 
—Dora  was  at  Eastham. 

It  was  a  sad  story  and  yet  no  rare  one.  Love  and  jeal- 
ousy robbed  the  boy  of  his  better  sense;  duty  and  honor 
were  forgotten.  Under  pretense  of  visiting  one  of  his  col- 
friends,  Ronald  went  .to  Eastham.  Lord  and  Lady 
PJarle  saw  him  depart  without  any  apprehension;  they 
never  suspected  that  he  knew  where  Dora  was. 

It  was  a  sad  story,  and  bitter  sorrow  came  from  it. 
Word  by  word  it  can  not  bo  written,  but  when  the  heir  oi 
J'.'nrlpscotirt  sa*v  r^  >ra  again,  her  artless  delight,  her  prettj 


DORA    THORtfE.  5fd 

Joy  and  sorrow  mingled,  her  fear  and  dislike  of  Ralph,  her 
love  for  himself  drove  all  thought  of  duty  and  honor  from 
his  mind.  He  prayed  her  to  become  his  \vifo  secretly.  JIo 
had  said  that  when  once  they  were  married  his  father  would 
forgive  them,  and  uil  would  be  well.  He  believed  what 
he  said;  Dora  had  uo  will  but  his.  She  forgot  till  Lady 
Earle's  warnings;  ehe  remembered  only  Ronald  and  bis 
love.  So  (hoy  were  married  in  the  quiet  parish  chiu 
Helsmeer,  twenty  miles  from  llii-tham,  and  no  human  be- 
ing either  knew  or  guessed  their  FCC  rut. 

There  was  no  excuse,  no  palliation  for  an  act  that  was 
undutiful,  dishonorable,  and  deceitful — there  was  nothing 
to  plead  for  him,  pave  that  he  was  young,  and  had  ; 
known  a  vrish  refn 

They  were  married.  Dora  Thome  became  Dora  Earle. 
Ronald  parted  from  hirf  prt-ttv  wife  immediately.  He  ar- 
ranged all  bis  plans  with  what  he  ronsidtrt'd  consummate 
wisdom.  He  was  to  return  borne,  uml  try  by  every  argu- 
ment in  his  power  to  soften  his  father  and  win  his  cor 
If  he  still  refused,  then  time  wcidd  S!M.V  him  th 
course.  Come  what  mi^hf,  D.ira  was  his;  nothing  on  earth 
could  part  them.  He  care.i  fur  very  little  else:  Even  ,f 
the  very  worst  came,  and  his  father  sent,  him  from  homo, 
it  would  only  be  for  a  time,  and  there  was  Dora  to  comfort 
him. 

He  returned  to  Earlescourt,  and  though  his  eyes  were 
never  raised  in  clear,  true  honecty  to  his  father's  face,  Lord 
Earle  saw  that  his  son  looked  happy,  and  believed  the  cloud 
h.-t'i  passed  away. 

Dora  waa  to  remain  at  Eastham  until  she  heard  from, 
him.     Ho  could  not  write  to  her,  nor  could  she  sen 
line  io  him;  but  he  promised  and  believed  that  very  soon 
V  should  take  her  in  all  honor  to  Earlescourt. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

IT  was  a  beautiful  morning  toward  the  end  of  August; 
the  balmy  sweetness  of  spring  had  given  way  to  the  glowing 
radiance  of  summer.    The  golden  corn  waved  in  the  I 
the  hedge-rows  were  filled  with  wild  flowers,  the  fruit  ! 
ripe  in  the  orchards.  Nature  wore  her  brightest  smile.  The 
-room  at  Earlescourt  was  a  ]>  cM\-  apartment;  it 


30  DOHA    THOBNE. 

opened  on  to  a  flower  garden,  and  through  the  long  French 
windows  came  the  sweet  perfume  of  rose  blossoms. 

It  was  a  pretty  scene — the  sunbeams  fell  upon  the  rich 
silver,  the  delicate  china,  the  vases  of  sweet  flowers. 
Lord  Earle  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  busily  engaged  with 
his  letters.  Lady  Earle,  in  the  daintiest  of  morning  toilets, 
was  smiling  over  the  pretty  pink  notes  full  of  fashionable 
gossip.  Her  delicate,  patrician  face  looked  clear  and  pure 
in  the  fresh  morning  light.  But  there  was  no  smile  oa 
Ronald's  face.  He  was  wondering,  for  the  hundredth 
time,  how  he  was  to  tell  his  father  what  he  had  done.  He 
longed  to  be  with  his  pretty  Bcra;  and  yet  there  was  a  se- 
vere storm  to  encounter  before  he  could  bring  her  home. 

"  Ah,"  said  Lady  Earle,  suddenly,  "  here  is  good  news 
— Lady  Charteris  is  positively  coming,  Rupert  Sir  Hugh 
will  join  her  in  a  few  days.  She  will  be  here  with  Valentine 
to-morrow." 

"  1  am  very  glad,"  said  Lord  Earle,  looking  up  with 
pleasure  and  surprise.  **  We  must  ask  Lady  Laurence  to 
meet  them, " 

Ronald  sighed;  his  parents  busily  discussed  the  hospitali- 
ties and  pleasures  to  be  offered  their  guests.  A  grand  din- 
ner-party was  planned,  and  a  ball,  to  which  half  the  coun- 
try-side were  to  be  invited. 

*4  Valentine  loves  gayetv,"  said  Lady  Earle,  "  and  we 
must  give  her  plenty  of  it. 

"  1  shall  have  all  this  to  go  through,"  sighed  Ronald — 
**  grand  parties,  dinners,  and  balls,  while  my  heart  longs  to 
be  with  my  darling;  and  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  how  shall  1 
find  time  to  talk  to  my  father?  I  will  begin  this  very  day. " 

When  dinner  was  over,  Ronald  proposed  to  Lord  Earle 
that  they  should  go  out  on  the  terrace  and  smoke  a  cigar 
there.  Then  took  place  the  conversation  with  which  our 
story  opens,  when  the  master  of  Earlescourt  declared  his 
final  resolve. 

Ronald  was  more  disturbed  than  he  cared  to  own  even  to 
himself.  Once  the  words  hovered  upon  his  lips  that  he 
had  married  Dora.  Had  Lord  Earle  been  angry  or  con- 
temptuous, he  would  have  uttered  them;  but  in  the  pres- 
ence of  his  father's  calm,  dignified  wisdom,  he  was  abashed 
and  uncertain.  For  the  first  time  he  felt  the  truth  of  aU 
his  father  said.  Not  \hat  he  loved  Dora  less,  or  repented 


DORA    THORNB.  31 

of  the  rash  private  marriage,  but  Lord  Earle's  appeal  to 
his  sense  of  the  "  fitness  of  things  "  touched  him. 

There  was  little  time  for  reflection.  Lady  Charteris  and 
her  daughter  were  coming  on  the  morrow.  Again  Lady 
Earle  entered  the  field  as  a  diplomatist,  and  came  of!  vic- 
torious. 

"  Ronald,"  said  his  mother,  as  they  parted  that  evening, 
*'  I  know  that,  as  a  rule,  young  men  of  your  age  do  not 
care  for  the  society  of  elderly  ladies;  1  must  ask  you  to 
make  an  exception  in  favor  of  Lady  Charteris.  They 
showed  me  great  kindness  at  Greenoke,  and  you  must  help 
me  to  ret'irn  it.  I  shall  consider  every  attention  shown  to 
the  lady  and  her  daughter  as  shown  to  myself." 

Ronald  smiled  at  his  mother's  words,  and  told  her  he 
would  never  fail  in  her  service. 

"  If  he  sees  much  of  Valentine,"  thought  his  mother, 
"  he  can  not  help  loving  her.  Then  all  will  be  well." 

Ronald  was  not  in  the  house  when  the  guests  arrived; 
they  came  rather  before  the  appointed  time.  His  mother 
and  Lady  Charteris  had  gone  to  the  library  together,  leav- 
ing Valentine  in  the  drawing-room  alone.  Ronald  found 
her  there.  Opening  the  door,  he  saw  the  sleeve  of  a  white 
dress;  believing  Lady  Earle  was  there,  he  went  carelessly 
into  the  room,  then  started  in  astonishment  at  the  vision 
before  him.  Once  in  a  century,  perhaps,  one  sees  a  woman 
like  Valentine  Charteris;  of  the  purest  and  loveliest  Greek 
type,  a  calm,  grand,  magnificent  blonde,  with  clear,  straight 
brows,  fair  hair  that  shone  like  satin  and  lay  in  thick 
'olds  around  her  queenly  head — tall  nnd  stately,  with  a 
finished  ease  and  grace  of  manner  that  could  only  result 
from  long  and  careful  training.  She  rose  when  Ronald 
entered  the  room,  and  her  beautiful  eyes  were  lifted  calmly 
to  his  face.  Suddenly  a  rush  of  color  dyed  the  white  brow. 
Valentine  remember*,  d  what  Ludy  Earlo  had  said  of  her 
son.  She  knew  that  both  his  mother  and  hers  wished  that 
she  should  be  Sonald's  wife. 

44 1  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  hastily,  •'  t  thought  Lady 
Earle  was  here. 

"  She  is  in  the  library,"  said  Valentine-  ~vitb  a  smile  that 
dazzled  him. 

He  bowed  and  withdrew.  This,  then,  was  Valentine 
Charteris,  the  fine  lady  whose  coming  he  had  dreaded.  She 
was  vorv  beaut'ful— he  had  never  seen  a  face  like  hers. 


88  DOBA    THORNE. 

No  thought  of  love,  or  of  comparing  this  magnmcenft 
woman  with  simple,  pretty  Dora,  ever  entered  his  mind 
Bat  Ronald  was  a  true  artist,  and  one  of  no  mean  skill 
He  thought  of  that  pure  Grecian  face  as  he  would  have 
thought  of  a  beautiful  picture  or  an  exquisite  statue.  He 
never  thought  of  the  loving,  sensitive  woman's  heart  hidden 
under  it. 

it  was  not  difficult  when  dinner  was  over  to  open  the 
grand  piano  for  Valentine,  to  fetch  her  music,  and  listen 
while  she  talked  of  operas  be  Lad  never  heard.  It  wa& 
pleasant  to  watch  her,  as  she  sat  in  the  evening  gloaming, 
her  superb  beauty  enhanced  by  the  delicate  evening  dress 
of  fine  white  lace;  the  shapely  shoulders  were  polished  and 
white,  the  exquisite  arms  rounded  and  clasped  by  a  brace- 
let  of  pearls.  She  wore  a  rose  in  the  bodice  of  her  dress, 
and,  as  Ronald  bent  over  the  music  she  was  showing  him 
the  sweet,  subtle  perfume  came  to  him  like  a  message  from 
Dora. 

Valentine  Charteris  had  one  paarm  even  greater  than  her 
beauty.  She  talked  well  and  gracefully — the  play  of  net 
features,  the  movement  of  her  lips,  were  something  not  to 
be  forgotten;  and  her  smile  seemed  to  break  like  a  sunbeam 
over  her  whole  face — it  was  irresistible. 

Poor  Ronald  stood  by  her,  watching  the  expression  that 
seemed  to  change  with  every  word;  listening  to  pretty  pol- 
ished language  that  was  in  itself  a  charm.  The  two  mothers, 
looking  on,  and  Lord  Earle  felt  himself  relieved  from  a 
heavy  weight  of  care.  Then  Lady  Earle  asked  Valentine 
to  sing.  She  was  quite  free  from  all  affectation. 

"  What  kind  of  music  do  you  prefer?"  she  asked,  look* 
Ing  at  Ronald. 

"  Simple  old  ballads/''  he  replied,  thinking  of  Dora,  and 
how  prettily  she  would  sing  them. 

He  started  when  the  first  note  of  Valentine's  magnificent 
voice  rang  clear  and  sweet  in  the  quiet  gloaming.  She 
sung  some  quaint  old  story  of  a  knight  who  loved  a  maiden 
—loved  and  rode  away,  returning  after  long  years  to  find  a 

green  grave.     Ronald  sat  thinking  of  Dora.     Ah,  perhaps, 
ad  he  forsaken  her,  the  pretty  dimpled  face  would  have 
faded  away!   He  felt  pleased  that  he  had  been  true.    The» 
the  music  ceased. 

"Is  that  what  you  like?"  asked  Valentine  Charterisf 
*  it  is  of  the  stronger  sentimental  school. " 


DORA 

Simple,  honest  Ronald  wondered  if  sentiment  was  a  s*r 
against  etiquette,  or  why  fashionable  'ladies  generally 
spoke  of  it  with  a  sneor. 

"  Do  you  laugh  at  sentiment?"  he  asked;  and  Valentine 
opened  her  fine  eyes  in  wonder  at  the  question.  Lady  Earle 
half  overheard  it,  and  smiled  in  great  satisfaction.  Matters 
must  be  going  on  well,  she  thought,  if  Ronald  had  already* 
begun  to  speak  of  sentiment.  She  never  thought  that  his 
heart  and  mind  were  with  Dora  while  he  spoke — pretty 
Dora,  who  cried  over  his  poetry,  and  devoutly  believed  in 
the  language  of  flowers. 

The  evening  passed  rapidly,  and  Ronald  felt  something 
like  regret  when  it  ended.  Lady  Earle  was  too  wise  to 
make  any  comments;  she  never  asked  her  sou  if  he  likod 
Valentine  or  what  he  thought  of  her. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  tired,"  she  said,  with  a  charming 
smile;  **  thank  you  for  helping  to  amuse  my  friends." 

When  Ronald  thought  over  what  he  had  done,  his  share 
seemed  very  small;  still  his  mother  was  pleased,  and  he 
went  to  rest  resolved  that  on  the  morrow  he  would  be 
doubly  attentive  to  Miss  Charteris. 

Three  days  passed,  and  Ronald  had  grown  quite  at  ease 
with  Valentine.  They  read  and  disputed  over  the  same 
books;  Ronald  brought  out  his  large  folio  of  drawings,  and 
Valentine  wondered  uc  nis  skill.  He  bent  over  her,  ex- 
plaining the  sketches,  laughing  and  talking  gayly,  as  though 
there  was  no  dark  background  to  his  life. 

'  You  are  an  accomplished  artist,"  said  Miss  Charteris^ 
*'  you  must  have  given  much  time  to  study." 

"  I  am  fond  of  it,"  said  R  maid;  "  if  fate  had  not  madb 
me  an  only  son  1  should  have  chosen  painting  as  my  pro- 
fession." 

In  after  years  these  words  came  back  to  them  as  a  sad 
prophecy. 

Ronald  liked  Miss  Charteris.  Apart  from  ner  grand 
beauty,  she  had  the  charm,  too,  of  a  kindly  heart  and  an 
affectionate  nature.  lie  saw  how  much  Lady  Earle  loved 
her,  and  resolved  to  tell  Valentine  all  about  Dora,  and  ask 
her  to  try  to  influence  his  mother.  With  that  aim  and  end 
in  view,  he  talked  Continually  to  tho  young  lady;  Le  ac- 
companied her  in  all  her  walks  and  drives,  and  they  sung 
and  sketched,  together.  Rfni:tld,  knowing  himself  so  safely 
bound  to  Dora,  forgot  m  wuat  light  im  ,:onuuut  must  ao* 


M  DORA    THOBNB. 

pear  to  others.  Lady  Earle  had  forgotten  her  fears;  sfea 
believed  that  her  eon  was  learning  to  love  Valentine,  and 
her  husband  shared  her  belief. 

All  things  just  then  were  couleurde  rose  at  Earlescourt 
Ronald  looked  and  felt  happy — he  had  great  faith  in  Val» 
entine's  persuasive  powers. 

Days  passed  by  rapidly;  the  time  for  the  grand  ball  was 
di awing  near.  Lady  Earle  half  wondered  when  her  son, 
would  speak  of  Miss  Charteris,  and  Valentine  wondered 
why  he  lingered  near  her,  why  oftentimes  he  was  on  the 
point  of  speaking,  and  then  drew  back.  She  quite  believed 
toe  cared  for  her,  and  she  liked  him  in  return,  as  much  as 
she  was  capable  of  liking  any  one. 

She  was  no  tragedy  queen,  but  a  loving,  affectionate  girl, 
unable  to  reach  the  height  of  passionate  love,  or  the  depth 
of  despair.  She  was  well  disposed  toward  Ronald — Lady 
Earle  spoke  so  much  of  him  at  Greenoke.  She  knew  too 
that  a  marriage  with  him  would  delight  her  mother. 

Valentine's  favorable  impression  of  Ronald  was  deepened 
when  she  saw  him.  Despite  the  one  great  act  of  duplicity 
which  shadowed  his  whole  life,  Ronald  was  true  and  honor- 
able. Valentine  admired  his  clear  Saxon  face  and  firm  lips: 
she  admired  his  deep  bright  eyes,  that  darkened  with  ever) 
passing  emotion;  she  liked  his  gentle,  chivalrous  manner, 
his  earnest  words,  his  deferential  attention  to  herself,  hia 
affectionate  devotion  to  Lady  Earle. 

There  was  not  a  braver  or  more  gallant  man  in  England 
than  this  young  heir  of  Earleecourt.  He  inherited  the  per- 
sonal beauty  and  dourage  of  his  race.  He  gave  promise  of 
a  splendid  manhood;  and  no  one  knew  how  proudly  Lord 
Earle  had  rejoiced  in  that  promise. 

In  her  calm  stately  way,  Valentine  liked  him;  she  evea 
loved  him,  and  would  have  been  happy  as  his  wife.  Sho 
snjoyed  his  keen,  intellectual  powers  and  his  originality  of 
thought  Even  the  "  dreadful  politics^"  that  scared  and 
shocked  his  father,  amused  her. 

Ronald,  whose  heart  was  full  of  the  pretty  little  wife  ha 
dared  neither  see  nor  write  to,  gave  no  heed  to  Valentine's 
manner;  it  never  occurred  to  him  what  construction  cooldl 
be  put  upon  his  friendly  •'kin*'  for  her. 


DORA    THORITE. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

THE  day  came  for  the  grand  ball,  and  daring  breakfast 
the  ladies  discussed  the  important  question  of  bouquets; 
from  that  the  conversation  changed  to  flowers.  **  There 
are  so  many  of  them,"  said  Valentine,  "  and  they  are  all 
so  beautiful,  1  am  always  at  a  loss  which  to  choose/' 

"I  should  never  hesitate  a  moment/'  said  Ronald, 
laughingly.  "  You  will  accuse  me,  perhaps  of  being  senti- 
mental, but  I  must  give  preference  to  the  white  lily-bells. 
Lilies  of  the  valley  are  the  fairest  flowers  that  grow." 

Lady  Earle  overheard  the  remark;  no  one  else  appeared 
to  notice  it,  and  she  was  not  much  surprised  when  valen- 
tine entered  the  ball-room  to  see  white  lilies  in  her  fair  hair, 
and  a  bouquet  of  the  same  flowers,  half-shrouded  by  green 
leaves,  in  her  hand. 

Many  eyes  turned  admiringly  upon  the  calm,  stately 
beauty  and  her  white  flowers.  Ronald  saw  them.  He 
could  not  help  remarking  the  exquisite  toilet,  marred  by 
no  obtrusive  colors,  the  pretty  lily  wreath  and  fragrant 
bouquet  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  Valentine  had 
chosen  those  delicate  blossoms  in  compliment  to  him.  He 
thought  he  had  never  seen  a  fairer  picture  than  this  mag- 
niii(;«'iiL  blonde;  then  she  faded  from  his  mind.  He  looked 
round  on  those  fair  and  noble  ladies,  thinking  that  Dora's 
ehy,  sweet  face  was  far  lovelier  than  any  there.  He  looked 
at  the  costly  jewels,  the  waving  plumes,  the  sweeping  sat* 
ins,  and  thought  of  Dora's  plain,  pretty  dress.  A  softened 
look  came  into  his  eyes,  as  he  pictured  his  shy,  graceful 
wife.  Some  day  she,  too,  would  walk  through  these  gor- 
geous rooms,  and  then  would  all  admire  the  wisdom  of  hii 
choice.  So  the  heir  of  Earlescourt  dreamed  as  he  watched 
the  brilliant  crowd  that  began  to  fill  the  ball-room;  but 
**iB  reverie  was  suddenly  broken  by  a  summons  from  Lady 
Earle. 

"  Ronald,  '  said  she,  looking  slightly  impatient,  "  have 
you  forgotten  that  it  is  your  place  to  open  the  ball?  Yon 
must  ask  Miss  ( 'harteris  to  dance  with  you. " 

"  That  will  bo  no  hardship,"  he  replied,  smiling  at  his 
mother's  earnest  manner.  "  I  would  rather  dance  with 
Miss  Charteris  than  any  one  else." 


88  DORA    THOSNE. 


Earle  wisely  kept  silence;  her  son  went  up  to  Val« 
entine  and  made  his  request.  He  danced  with  her  again 
and  again  —  not  as  Lady  Earle  hoped,  from  any  unusual 
preference,  but  because  it  gave  him  less  trouble  than  seek- 
ing  partners  among  strange  young  ladies.  Valentine  un- 
derstood him;  they  talked  easily,  and  without  restraint.  Ha 
paid  her  no  compliments,  and  she  did  not  seem  to  expec* 
any.  With  other  ladies,  Ronald  was  always  thinking, 
"  V^hat  would  they  say  of  they  knew  of  that  fair  young 
wife  at  Eastham?"  With  Valentine  no  such  idea  haunted 
him  —  he  had  an  instinctive  belief  in  her  true  and  firm 
friendship. 

Lady  Earle  overheard  a  few  whispered  comments,  and 
they  filled  her  heart  with  delight.  Old  friends  whispered 
to  her  that  "  it  would  be  a  splendid  match  for  her  son/' 
and  "  how  happy  she  would  be  with  such  a  daughter-in- 
law  as  Miss  Charteris,  so  beautiful  and  dignified;"  and  all 
this  because  Ronald  wanted  to  secure  Valentine's  friend- 
ship, so  that  she  might  intercede  for  Dora. 

When,  for  the  fourth  time,  Ronald  asked  Miss  Chartena 
"*  for  the  next  dance,"  she  looked  up  at  him  with  a  smile. 

"  Do  you  know  how  often  we  have  danced  together  this 
evening?"  she  asked. 

"  What  does  it  matter?"  he  replied,  wondering  at  the 
flush  that  crimsoned  her  face.  *'  Forgive  me,  Miss  Char- 
teris, if  I  say  that  you  realize  my  idea  of  the  poetry  of  mo- 
tion." 

"  Is  that  why  you  ask  me  so  frequently?"  she  said, 
archly. 

"  Yes,"  replied  honest  Ronald;  "  it  is  a  great  pleasure; 
for  one  good  dancer  there  are  fifty  bad  ones. 

He  did  not  quite  understand  the  pretty,  piqued  expres- 
sion of  her  face. 

*'  You  have  not  told  me,"  said  Valentine,  "  whether  you 
like  my  flowers.  " 

"  They  are  very  beautiful,"  he  replied;  but  the  compli- 
ment of  ner  selection  was  all  lost  upon  him. 

Miss  Charteris  did  not  know  whether  he  was  simply  in- 
different or  timid. 

"  You  told  me  these  lilies  were  your  favorite  flowers," 
she  said. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Ronald;  "  but  they  are  not  the  flowers 
that  r-rspmble  yon,"  He  was  thinking  hn^  *nuch  simple^ 


DORA    TBOBKE.  87 

kmng  Dora  was  like  the  pretty,  delicate  little  blossoms. 
*'  You  are  like  the  tall  queenly  lilies." 

He  paused,  for  Valentine  was  looking  at  him  with  a  won- 
dering smile. 

"  Do  you  know  you  have  paid  me  two  compliments  in 
less  than  five  minutes?"  she  said.  "  And  yesterday  we 
agreed  that  between  true  friends  they  were  quite  unneces- 
sary. " 

"  I — 1  did  not  intend  to  pay  idle  compliments,"  he  re- 
plied. "  1  merely  said  what  1  thought.  You  are  like  a 
tall,  grand,  white  lily,  Miss  Charteris.  I  have  often 
thought  so.  If  you  will  not  dance  with  mo  again,  will  you 
walk  through  the  rooms?" 

Many  admiring  glances  followed  them — a  handsomer 
pair  was  seldom  seen.  They  passed  through  the  long  suite 
of  rooms  and  on  to  the  conservatory,  where  lamps  gleamed 
like  stars  between  the  green  plants  and  rare  exotics. 

"  Will  you  rest  here?"  said  Ronald.  M  The  ball-room 
is  so  crowded  one  can  not  speak  there." 

"Ah,"  thought  Miss  Charteris,  "then  he  really  has 
something  to  say  to  me!" 

Despite  her  calm  dignity  and  serene  manner,  Valentine's 
Aeart  beat  high.  She  loved  the  gallant  young  heir — his 
honest,  kindly  nature  had  a  great  charm  for  her.  She  saw 
that  the  handsome  face  bending  over  the  flowers  was  agi- 
tated and  pale.  Miss  Charteris  looked  down  at  the  lilies 
in  her  hand.  He  came  nearer  to  her,  and  looked  anxiously 
at  her  beautiful  faoe. 

"  I  am  not  eloquent,"  said  Ronald — "  1  have  no  great 
gift  of  speech;  but,  Miss  Charteris,  I  should  like  to^iind 
some  words  that  would  reach  your  heart  and  dwell  there." 

1  Fe  wanted  to  tell  her  of  Dora,  to  describe  her  sweet  face 
with  its  dimples  and  blushes,  her  graceful  manner,  her 
timid,  sensitive  disposition.  He  wanted  to  make  her  love 
Dora,  to  help  him  to  soften  his  mother's  prejudices  and  his 
father's  anger;  no  wonder  his  lips  quivered  and  his  voice 
faltered.  • 

"  For  some  days  past  I  have  been  longing  to  speak  to 
you,''  continued  Ronald;  "  now  my  courage  almost  fails 
me.  Miss  Charteris,  say  something  that  will  give  me  con- 
fidence." She  looked  up  at  him,  and  any  other  man  would 
have  read  the  love  in  IIT  face. 


88  DORA    THORITE. 

"  The  simplest  words  you  can  use  will  always  interest 
me,"  she  said,  gently. 

His  face  cleared,  and  he  began:  "  You  are  kind  and  gen- 
erous— " 

Then  came  an  interruption — Sir  Harry  Laurence,  with 
a  lady,  entered  the  conservatory. 

"  This  is  refreshing,"  he  said  to  Ronald.  **  I  have  beem 
ten  minutes  trying  to  get  here,  the  rooms  are  so  fulL" 

Miss  Charteris  smiled  in  replying,  wishing  Sir  Harry  had 
waited  ten  minutes  longer. 

"  Promise  me,"  said  Ronald,  detaining  her,  as  Sir  Harry 
passed  on,  "  that  you  will  give  me  one  half  hour  to-mor- 
row." 

"  1  will  do  so,"  replied  she. 

"  And  you  will  listen  to  me,  Miss  Charteris?"  he  con- 
tinued. "  You  will  hear  all  1  have  to  say?" 

Valentine  made  no  reply;  several  other  people  came, 
some  to  admire  the  alcove  filled  with  ferns  which  drooped 
from  the  wall  by  which  she  was  standing,  others  to  breathe 
the  fragrant  air.  Sho  could  not  speak  without  being  over- 
heard; but,  with  a  charming  smile,  she  took  a  beautiful  lily 
from  her  bouquet  and  held  it  out  to  him.  They  then 
went  back  into  the  ball-room. 

"  He  loves  me,"  thought  Valentine;  and,  as  far  as  her 
calm,  serene  nature  was  capable  of  passionate  delight,  she 
felt  it. 

**  She  will  befriend  me,"  thought  Ronald;  **  but  why  did 
she  give  me  this  flower?" 

The  most  remote  suspicion  that  Valentine  had  mistaken 
him — that  she  loved  him — never  crossed  the  mind  of  Ronald 
Earle.  He  was  singularly  free  from  vanity.  Perhaps  if 
he  had  a  little  more  confidence  in  himself,  the  story  of  the 
Earles  might  have  been  different. 

Lady  Charteris  looked  at  her  daughter's  calm,  proud  face. 
She  had  noticed  the  little  interview  in  the  conservatory, 
and  drew  her  own  conclusions  from  it.  Valentine's  face 
confirmed  them — there  was  a  delicate  flush  upon  it,  and  a 
new  light  sho'.ie  in  the  lustrous  eyes. 

"You  like  Earlescourt?"  .said  Lady  Charteris  to  her 
daughter  that  evening,  as  they  sat  in  her  dressing-room 
done. 

*'  Yes,  mamma,  1  like  it  very  much,*'  said  Valentine* 


DORA    THORNE.  09 

"  And  from  what  1  see,"  continued  the  elder  lady,  "  I 
think  it  is  likely  to  be  your  home." 

"Yes,  I  believe  so,"  said  Valentine,  bending  over  bet 
mother,  and  kissing  her.  "  Ronald  has  asked  me  to  giv* 
him  one  half  hour  to-morrow,  and  I  am  very  happy,  mam- 
ma." 

For  one  so  calm  and  stately,  it  was  admission  enough. 
Lady  Charteris  knew,  from  the  tone  of  her  daughter's 
voice,  that  she  loved  Ronald  Earle. 

Ronald  slept  calmly,  half  hoping  that  the  end  of  his 
troubles  was  drawing  nigh.  Valentine,  whom  his  mother 
loved  so  well,  would  intercede  for  Dora.  Lord  Earle  would 
be  sure  to  relent;  and  he  could  bring  Dora  home,  and  all 
would  be  well.  If  ever  and  anon  a  cold  fear  crept  into  his 
heart  that  simple,  pretty  Dora  would  be  sadly  out  of  plaoe 
in  that  magnificent  home,  he  dashed  it  from  him.  Miss 
Charteris  slept  calmly,  too,  but  her  dreams  were  different 
from  Ronald's.  She  thought  of  the  time  when  she  would 
be  mistress  of  that  fair  domain,  and  the  wife  of  its  brave 
young  lord.  She  loved  him  well.  No  one  had  ever  pleased 
her  as  he  had — no  one  would  ever  charm  her  again.  Val- 
entine had  made  the  grand  mistake  of  her  life. 

The  morrow  so  eagerly  looked  for  was  a  fair,  bright  day. 
The  sun  shone  warm  and  bright,  the  air  was  soft  and  fra- 
grant, the  sky  blue  and  cloudless.  Lady  Charteris  did  not 
leave  her  room  for  breakfast,  and  Valentine  remained  with 
her  mother. 

When  breakfast  was  ended,  Ronald  lingered  about, 
hoping  to  see  Valentine.  He  had  not  waited  long  before  he 
saw  the  glimmer  of  her  white  dress  and  blue  ribbons.  Ha 
met  her  in  the  hall. 

"  Will  you  come  out  into  the  gardens,  Miss  Charteris?" 
he  asked.  "  The  morning  is  so  beautiful,  and  yon  prom- 
ised me  one  half  hour.  Do  not  take  that  book  with  you. 
I  shall  want  all  your  attention,  for  I  have  a  story  to  tell 
you." 

He  walked  by  her  side  through  the  pleasure-gardens, 
where  the  lake  gleamed  in  the  sunshine,  the  water-liliea 
sleeping  on  its  quiet  bosom;  through  the  fragrant  flower- 
Aeds,  where  the  bees  hummed  and  the  butterflies  made  love 
to  the  fairest  blossoms. 

"  Let  us  go  on  to  the  park,"  said  Valentine;  "  tbe«v* 
IB  too  warm  " 


40  »ORA    THOKNB. 

*'  I  know  a  little  spot  just  fitted  for  a  fairy  bower/'  said 
Ronald.  "  Let  me  show  it  to  you.  1  can  tell  my  story 
better  there." 

They  went  through  the  broad  gates  of  the  park,  across 
which  the  checkered  sunbeams  fell,  where  the  deer  browsed 
and  king-cups  and  tall  foxgloves  grew — on  to  the  brook- 
side  where  Dora  had  rested  so  short  a  time  since  to  think 
of  her  new-found  happiness. 

Th3  pale  primroses  had  all  died  away,  the  violets  were 
gone;  but  in  their  place  the  deep  green  bank  was  covered 
with  other  flowers  of  bright  and  sunny  hue.  The  shade  of 
tall  trees  covered  the  bank,  the  little  brook  sung  merrily, 
and  birds  chimed  in  with  the  rippling  water;  the  summer 
air  was  filled  with  the  faint,  sweet  summer  music. 

"  It  is  a  pretty  spot,"  said  Miss  Charteris. 

The  green  grass  seemed  to  dance  in  the  breeze,  and 
Eonald  made  something  like  a  throne  amid  it. 

"  You  shall  be  queen,  and  I  your  suppliant/'  he  said, 
"  You  promise  to  listen;  1  will  tell  you  my  story." 

They  sat  a  few  minutes  in  deep  silence,  broken  only  by 
the  singing  brook  and  the  music  of  the  birds;  a  solemn 
hush  seemed  to  have  fallen  on  them,  while  the  leaves  rust- 
led in  the  wind. 

If  Ronald  Earle's  heart  and  mind  had  not  been  filled 
with  another  and  very  different  image,  he  must  have  seen 
how  fair  Valentine  looked;  the  sunlight  glinting  through 
the  dense  green  foliage  fell  upon  her  face,  while  the  white 
di-ess  and  blue  ribbons,  the  fair  floating  hair,  against  the 
dark  background  of  the  bank  and  the  trees,  made  a  charm- 
ing picture;  but  Ronald  never  saw  it.  After  long  years 
the  memory  of  it  came  back  to  him,  and  he  wondered  at 
his  own  blindness.  He  never  saw  the  trembling  of  the 
white  fingers  that  played  carelessly  with  sprays  of  purple 
foxglove;  he  never  saw  the  faint  flush  upon  her  face,  the 
quiver  of  her  proud,  beautiful  lips,  or  the  love-light  in  her 
eyes.  He  only  saw  and  thought  of  Dora. 

"  1  told  you,  Miss  Charteris,  last  evening,  that  I  was  not 
eloquent,"  began  Ronald.  "  When  anything  lies  deep  ia 
my  heart,  1  find  great  difficulty  in  telling  it  in  words. " 

"  All  sacred  and  deep  feeling  is  quiet/'  said  Valentine; 
"  a  torrent  of  words  does  not  always  show  an  earnest  na- 
ture. I  have  many  thoughts  that  I  could  never  express/1 
,  "  Tf  T_  could  only  be  sure  that  you  would  understand  raft 


DORA    THORITE.  €l 

Miss  Charteris,"  said  Ronald — **  that  yon  would  see  and 
comprehend  the  motives  that  I  can  hardly  explain  myself  I 
Sitting  here  in  the  summer  sunshine,  1  can  scarcely  realize 
how  dark  the  cloud  is  that  hangs  over  me.  You  are  so 
kind  and  patient,  1  will  tell  you  my  story  in  my  own  way." 
She  gathered  a  rich  cluster  of  bluebells,  and  bent  over 
them,  pulling  the  pretty  flowers  into  pieces,  and  throwing 
leaf  after  leaf  into  the  stream. 

"  Three  months  since,"  continued  Ronald,  "  I  came 
home  to  Earlescourt.  Lord  and  Lady  Earle  were  both  at 
Greenoke;  I,  and  not  quite  myself,  preferred  remaining 
here  alone  and  quiet.  One  morning  I  went  out  into  the 
garden,  listless  for  want  of  something  to  do.  I  saw  there 
—ah!  how  I  want  words,  Miss  Charteris — the  fairest  girl 
the  sun  ever  shone  upon." 

He  saw  the  flowers  fall  from  Valentine's  grasp;  she  put 
her  hand  to  her  brow,  as  though  to  shield  her  face. 

**  Does  the  light  annoy  you?"  he  asked. 

**  No,"  she  replied,  steadily;  "  go  on  with  your  story." 

**  A  clever  man,"  said  Ronald,  "  might  paint  for  you 
the  pretty  face,  all  smiles  and  dimples,  the  dark  shining 
rings  of  hair  that  fell  upon  a  white  brow,  the  sweet,  shy. 
eyes  fringed  by  long  lashes,  seldom  raised,  but  full  of  won- 
derful light  when  once  you  could  look  into  their  depths.  I 
can  only  tell  you  how  in  a  few  days  1  grew  to  love  the  fair 
young  face,  and  how  Dora  Thome — that  was  her  name, 
Miss  Charteris— loved  me." 

Valentine  never  moved  nor  spoke;  Ronald  could  see  the 
bright  flush  die  away,  and  the  proud  lips  quiver. 

"  I  must  tell  you  all  quickly,"  said  Ronald.  "  She  is 
not  what  people  call  a  lady,  this  beautiful  wild  flower  of 
mine.  Her  father  lives  at  the  lodge;  he  is  Lord  Earle's 
lodge-keeper,  and  she  knows  nothing  of  the  world  or  its 
ways.  She  has  never  been  taught  or  trained,  though  her 
voice  is  like  sweet  music,  and  her  laugh  like  the  chime  of 
silver  bells.  She  is  like  a  bright  April  day,  smiles  and 
tears,  sunshine  and  rain — so  near  together  that  I  never 
know  whether  I  love  her  best  weeping  or  laughing. " 

He  paused,  but  Valentine  did  not  speak;  her  hand  still 
shaded  her  face. 

44 1  loved  her  very  much,"  said  Ronald,  tl  an»l  Itold  her 
eo.  1  asked  her  to  be  my  wife,  and  she  promised.  When 
my  f<xM>r,r  came  home  from  Greenoke  1  asked  his  consent, 


49  DORA    THORNE. 

and  he  laugfcea  at  me.  He  would  not  believe  me  serious, 
1  need  not  tell  you  the  details.  They  sent  my  pretty  Dora 
away,  and  some  one" who  loved  her — who  wanted  to  make 
her  his  wife — came,  and  quarreled  with  me.  He — my 
rival — swore  that  Dora  should  be  his.  In  his  passion  hs 
betrayed  the  secret  so  well  kept  from  me.  He  told  me 
where  she  was,  and  I  went  to  see  her." 

There  was  no  movement  in  the  quiet  figure,  no  words 
passed  the  white  lips. 

"  I  went  to  see  her,"  he  continued;  **  she  was  so  un- 
happy, so  pretty  in  her  sorrow  and  love,  so  innocent,  so 
fond  of  me,  that  I  forgot  all  I  should  have  remembered, 
and  married  her. " 

Valentine  started  then  and  uttered  a  low  cry. 

"You  are  shocked,"  said  Ronald;  "but,  on,  Miss 
Charteris,  think  of  her  so  young  and  gentle!  They  would 
have  forced  her  to  marry  the  farmer,  and  she  disliked  him. 
What  else  could  1  do  to  save  her?" 

Even  then,  in  the  midst  of  that  sharp  sorrow,  Valentine 
could  not  help  admiring  Ronald's  brave  simplicity,  his  chiv- 
alry, his  honor. 

"  1  married  her,"  he  said,  "  and  1  mean  to  be  true  to 
her.  I  thought  my  father  would  relent  and  forgive  us, 
but  1  fear  I  was  too  sanguine.  Since  my  marriage  my 
father  has  told  me  that  if  1  do  not  give  up  Dora  he  will  not 
see  me  again.  Every  day  I  resolve  to  tell  him  what  1  have 
done,  but  something  interferes  to  prevent  it.  I  have  never 
seen  my  wife  since  our  wedding-day.  She  is  still  at  East- 
ham.  Now,  Miss  Charteris,  be  my  friend,  and  help  me." 

Bravely  enough  Valentine  put  away  her  sorrow — another 
time  she  would  look  it  in  the  face;  all  her  thoughts  must 
now  be  for  him. 

'  "  I  will  do  anything  to  serve  you,"  she  said,  gently. 
"  What  can  I  do?" 

"  My  mother  loves  you  very  much,"  said  Ronald;  "  she 
will  listen  to  you.  When  I  have  told  her,  will  you,  in 
your  sweet,  persuasive  way,  interfere  for  Dora?  Lady 
Earle  will  be  influenced  by  what  you  say." 

A  quiver  of  pain  passed  over  the  proud,  calm  face  of 
Valentine  Charteris. 

"  If  you  think  it  wise  for  a  stranger  to  interfere  in  so  del- 
Jcate  a  mater,  I  will  do  so  cheerfully/'  she  said;  "  but  let 


DORA    THOKNE.  4$ 

me  counsel  one  thing.     Tell  Lord  and  Lady  Earle  a*  once. 
Do  not  delay,  every  hour  is  of  consequence," 

"  What  do  you  think  of  my  story?"  asked  Ronald,  anx- 
iously. "  Have  I  done  right  or  wrong?" 

"  Do  not  ask  me,"  replied  Valentine. 

44  Yes,"  he  urged,  "  I  will  ask  again:  you  are  my  friend. 
Tell  me,  have  1  done  right  or  wronur?" 

44 1  can  speak  nothing  but  truth,"  replied  Valentine, 
•'  and  I  think  you  have  done  wrong.  Do  not  be  angry. 
Honor  is  everything;  it  ranks  before  life  or  love.  In  some 
degree  you  have  tarnished  yours  by  an  underhand  pro- 
ceeding, a  private  marriage,  one  forbidden  by  your  parents 
and  distastefull  to  them." 

Ronald's  face  fell  as  her  words  came  to  him  slowly  and 
clearly. 

44 1  thought,"  said  he,  '*  I  was  doing  a  brave  deed  in 
marrying  Dora.  She  had  no  one  to  take  her  part  but 
me." 

44  It  was  a  brave  deed  in  one  sense,"  said  Valentine. 
"  You  have  proved  yourself  generous  and  disinterested. 
Heaven  grant  that  you  may  be  happy !" 

44  She  is  young  and  impressionable,"  said  Ronald:  44 1 
can  easily  mold  her  to  my  own  way  of  thinking.  You  look 
very  grave,  Miss  Charteris. " 

44 1  am  thinking  of  you,"  she  said,  gently:  44  it  seems  to 
me  a  grave  matter.  Pardon  me — but  did  *ou  reflect  well 
— were  you  quite  convinced  that  the  whole  happiness  of 
your  life  was  at  stake?  If  so,  1  need  say  no  more.  It  is 
an  unequal  marriage,  one  not  at  all  fitting  in  the  order  of 
things. h 

How  strange  that  she  should  use  his  father's  words! 

44  Tell  your  father  at  once,"  she  continued.  4<  You  can 
never  retrace  the  step  you  have  taken.  You  may  never 
wish  to  do  so,  but  you  can  and  must  retrieve  the  error  of 
duplicity  and  concealment. " 

"  You  will  try  and  make  my  mother  love  Dora?"  said 
Ronald. 

4  That  I  will/'  replied  Valentine.  '  You  sketched  her 
portrait  well.  I  can  almost  see  her.  I  will  speak  of  her 
Beauty,  her  grace,  her  tenderness." 

'  You  are  a  true  friend,"  said  Ronald,  gratefully. 

4'  l>o  not  overrate  my  influence,"  said  Valentine.     "  Yon 
your  life  boldly  in  the  *->e«.     Candidly 


04  DOHA    THORITE. 

and  honestly  I  think  that,  from  mistaken  notions  of  honoi 
and  chivalry,  you  have  done  wrong.  A  man  must  be  brave. 
Perhaps  one  of  the  hardest  lessons  in  life  is  to  bear  un« 
flinchingly  the  effects  and  consequences  of  one's  own  deeds. 
You  must  do  that;  you  must' not  flinch;  you  must  beat 
what  follows  like  a  man  and  a  hero." 

"  I  will,"  said  Eonald,  looking  at  the  fair  face,  and  halt 
wishing  that  the  little  Dora  could  talk  to  him  as  this  noble 
girl  did;  such  noble  words  as  hers  made  men  heroes.  Then 
he  remembered  how  Dora  would  weep  if  he  were  in  trouble, 
and  clasp  her  arms  round  his  neck. 

"  We  shall  still  be  friends,  Miss  Charteris?"  he  said, 
pleadingly.  "  Whatever  comes  you  will  not  give  me  up?" 

"  I  will  be  your  friend  while  I  live,"  said  Valentine, 
holding  out  her  white  hand,  and  her  voice  never  faltered. 
"  You  have  trusted  me — I  shall  never  forget  that.  1  am 
your  friend,  and  Dora's  also." 

The  words  came  so  prettily  from  her  lips  that  Eonald 
emiled. 

"  Dora  would  be  quite  alarmed  at  you,"  he  -said;  "  she 
is  so  timid  and  shy. 

Then  he  told  Valentine  of  Dora's  pretty,  artless  ways,  of 
her  love  for  all  things  beautiful  in  nature,  always  return- 
ing to  one  tneme — her  great  love  for  him.  He  little 
dreamed  that  the  calm,  stately  beauty  listened  as  one  on 
the  rack — that  while  he  was  talking  of  Dora  she  was  trying 
to  realize  the  cold,  dreary  blank  that  had  suddenly  fallen 
over  her  life,  trying  to  think  what  the  future  would  be 
passed  without  him;  owning  to  herself  that  for  this  rash, 
chivalrous  marriage,  for  hie  generous  love,  she  admired  him. 
more  than  ever. 

The  hand  that  played  carelessly  among  the  wild  flowers 
had  ceased  to  tremble,  the  proud  lips  had  regained  their 
color,  and  then  Valentine  arose,  as  she  was  going  out  with 
Lady  Earle  after  lunch. 

A  feeling  of  something  like  blank  despair  seized  Valen- 
tine when  she  thought  of  what  she  must  say  to  her  mother. 
As  she  remembered  their  few  words  the  previous  evening, 
ber  face  flushed  hotly. 

'*  I  can  never  thank  you  enough  for  your  kind  patience,"1 
said  Eonald,  as  they  walked  back  through  the  shady  parik 
and  the  bright  flower-gardens. 

Valentine  smiled  and  raised  her  face  to  the  quiet  stun; 


DORA    THORXE.  £ 

iner  sky,  thinking  of  the  hope  that  had  been  hers  a  few 
short  hours  before. 

*'  You  will  go  at  once  and  see  your  father,  will  yon  set?" 
she  said  to  Ronald,  as  they  parted. 

"  1  am  going  now,"  he  replied;  but  as  that  very  mo« 
ment  Lady  Earle  came  up  to  him. 

**  Ronald, "  she  said,  **  come  into  my  boudoir.  Yon? 
father  is  there — he  wants  to  see  you  before  he  goes  to  Holt* 
ham." 

Valentine  went  straight  to  her  mother's  room.  Lady 
Charteris  sat  waiting  for  her,  beguiling  the  time  with  a 
book.  She  smiled  as  her  daughter  entered. 

"  I  hope  you  have  had  a  pleasant  walk,"  she  said;  but 
both  smile  and  words  died  away  as  she  saw  the  expression 
on  her  daughter's  face,  as  she  bent  over  her  mother. 

"  Mamma,"  said  Valentine,  gently,  "  all  I  said  to  yoq 
last  night  about  Earlescourt  was  a  great  mistake — it  will 
never  be  my  home.  My  vanity  misled  me." 

"  Have  you  quarreled  with  Ronald?"  asked  Lady  Char« 
teris,  quietly. 

"  No,"  was  the  calm  reply.  "  We  are  excellent  friends; 
but,  mamma,  1  was  mistaken.  He  did  want  to  tell  ma 
something,  but  it  was  of  his  love  for  some  one  else — not 
for  me." 

**  He  has  behaved  shamefully  to  you  I"  cried  Lady 
Charteris. 

"  Hush,  mamma!"  said  Valentine.  "You  forget  hovf 
such  words  humiliate  ine.  I  have  refused  men  of  far  bet- 
ter position  than  Ronald  Earle.  Never  let  it  be  imagined 
that  I  have  mistaken  his  intentions." 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  her  mother.  "  I  only  say  it  to 
yourself,  Valentine;  he  seemed  unable  to  live  out  of  you? 
eight — morning,  noon,  and  night  he  was  always  by  your 
side." 

"  He  only  wanted  me  to  be  his  friend,"  said  Valentine. 

"  Ah,  he  is  selfish,  like  all  the  men!"  said  Lady  Char- 
teri*.  "  With  whom  has  he  fallen  in  love,  my  dear?" 

"  Do  not  ask  me,"  replied  Valentine.  "  He  is  in  a  ter- 
rible dilemma.  Do  not  talk  to  me  about  it,  mamma.  I 
made  a  foolish  mistake,  and  do  not  wish  to  be  reminded 
of  it. " 

Lady  Charteris  detected  the  suppressed  pain  m  tne  toai 
«T  he'  r-hild's  voice,  and  instantly  formed  H<jr 


46  DORA    THORNE. 

"  1  think  of  returning  to-morrow,"  she  said.  '*  Tom 
father  is  getting  impatient  to  have  us  with  him.  He  can 
not  come  to  Earlescourt  himself.  You  say  Mr.  Earle  is  in 
a  terrible  dilemma,  Valentine.  I  hope  there  will  be  no 
scandalous  expose  while  we  are  here.  I  detest  scenes. " 

"  Lord  Earle  is  far  too  proud  for  anything  of  that  kind," 
eaid  Valentine.  *'  If  there  should  be  any  unpleasantness, 
it  will  not  appear  on  the  surface.  Mamma,  you  will  not 
mention  this  to  me  again." 

Valentine  threw  off  her  lace  shawl  and  pretty  hat;  she 
then  took  up  the  book  her  mother  had  laid  down. 

"  My  walk  has  tired  me,"  she  said;  **  the  sun  is  very 
Warm." 

She  lay  down  upon  the  sofa  and  turned  her  faoe  to  the 
window,  where  the  roses  came  nodding  in. 

"  Stay  here  and  rest,"  said  Lady  Charteris,  with  delicate 
tact.  "  I  am  going  to  write  my  letters." 

Valentine  lay  still,  looking  at  the  summer  beauty  out* 
side.  No  one  knew  of  the  tears  that  gathered  slowly  in 
those  proud  eyes;  no  one  knew  of  the  passionate  weeping 
that  could  not  be  stilled. 

When  Lady  Charteris  returned  in  two  hours,  Valentine 
had  regained  her  calm,  and  there  was  no  trace  of  tears  in 
the  smiles  which  welcomed  her.  Proudly  and  calmly  she 
bore  the  great  disappointment  of  her  life.  She  was  no 
tragedy  queen;  she  never  said  to  herself  that  her  life  was 
blighted  or  useless  or  burdensome.  But  she  did  say  that 
she  would  never  marry  until  she  found  some  one  with 
Ronald's  simple  chivalry,  his  loyal,  true  nature,  and  with- 
out the  weakness  which  had  caused  and  would  cause  se 
much  suffering. 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

LADY  EARLE'S  boudoir  was  always  considered  one  of  the 
prettiest  rooms  at  Earlesoourt.  Few,  but  rare,  pictures 
adorned  its  walls.  The  long  French  windows  opened  on  to 
the  prettiest  part  of  the  gardens,  where  a  large  fountain 
rippled  merrily  in  the  sunshine.  Groups  of  flowerg  in  rare 
and  costly  vases  perfumed  the  room. 

Lord  Earle  had  drawn  a  pretty  lounging-chair  to  the 
W'ndow-  and  sat  there,  looking  happier  than  he  had  looked 


DORA    THOBtfE.  4l 

for  months.     Lady  Earlo  went  on  with  her  task  of  arrang* 
ing  some  delicate  leaves  and  blossoms  ready  for  sketching. 

**  Ronald,"  said  his  father,  "  I  have  been  waiting  here 
some  time.  Have  you  been  out?" 

"  1  have  been  in  the  park  with  Miss  Charteris,"'  replied 
Ronald. 

Lord  Earle  smiled  again,  evidently  well  pleased  to  heap 
that  intelligence. 

"  A  pleasant  and  sensible  method  of  spending  your 
lame,"  he  continued;  "  and,  strange  to  say,  it  is  on  that 
very  subject  I  wish  to  speak  to  you.  Your  attentions  to 
Miss  Charteris — " 

**  My  attentions!"  cried  Ronald.  "  You  are  mistaken. 
1  have  never  paid  any. " 

1  You  need  have  no  fear  this  time,"  said  Lord  Earle. 
*'  Your  mother  tells  me  of  the  numerous  comments  made 
last  evening  on  your  long  tete-a-tete  in  the  conservatory. 
I  know  some  of  your  secrets.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that 
Miss  Charteris  has  a  great  regard  for  you.  1  sent  for  you 
to  say  that,  far  from  my  again  offering  any  opposition  to 
your  marriage,  the  dearest  wish  of  my  heart  will  be  grati- 
fied when  I  call  Valentine  Charteris  my  daughter." 

He  paused  for  a  reply,  but  none  came.  Ronald's  face 
had  grown  strangely  pala 

"  We  never  named  our  wish  to  you,"  continued  Lord 
Earle,  "  but  years  ago  your  mother  and  1  hoped  you  would 
Borne  day  love  Miss  Charteris.  She  is  very  beautiful;  she 
iy  the  truest,  noblest,  the  best  woman  I  know.  I  am 
proud  of  your  choice,  Ronald — more  proud  than  words  can 
os  press." 

Still  Ronald  made  no  reply,  and  Lady  Earle  looked  up 
at  him  quickly. 

"  You  need  not  fear  for  Valentine,"  she  said.  "  I  must 
not  betray  any  secrets;  she  likes  you,  Ronald;  1  will  say 
DO  more.  If  you  ask  her  to  be  your  wife,  1  do  not  think 
you  will  ask  in  vain." 

*'  There  is  some  great  mistake,"  said  Ronald,  his  pale 
lips  quivering.  "  Miss  Charteris  has  no  thought  for  me." 

"  She  has  no  thought  for  any  one  else,"  rejoined  Lady 
Earle,  quickly. 

"  And  I,"  continued  Ronald,  **  never  dreamed  of  mak- 
ing her  my  wife.     1  do  not  love  her.     I  can  never  man" 
o  Charteris." 


£b  DORA    THORPE. 

The  "smiles  died  from  Lord  Earle's  face,  and  his  \rife 
dropped  the  pretty  blossoms  she  was  arranging. 

Then  why  have  you  paid  the  girl  so  much  attention?" 
asked  his  father,  gravely.  "  Every  one  has  remarked  your 
manner;  you  never  seamed  happy  a\vay  from  her." 

"  I  wished  to  make  her  my  friend,"  said  Ronald;  "I 
never  thought  of  anything  else." 

He  stood  aghast  when  he  remembered  why  he  had  tried 
30  hard  to  win  her  friendship.  What  if  Valentine  misun- 
derstood him? 

"Others  thought  for  you,"  said  Lady  Earle,  dryly. 
"  Of  coarse,  if  I  am  mistaken,  there  is  no  more  to  be  said; 
I  merely  intended  to  say  how  happy  such  a  marriage  would 
make  me.  If  you  do  not  love  the  young  lady  the  matter 
ends,  1  suppose. " 

"  Can  you  not  love  her,  Ronald?"  asked  his  mother, 
gently.  "  She  is  so  fair  and  good,  so  well  fitted  to  be  th« 
future  mistress  of  Earlescourt.  Can  you  not  love  her?" 

**  Nothing  was  further  from  my  thoughts,"  he  repliea. 

**  Surely,"  interrupted  Lady  Earle,  "  you  have  fVrgot- 
ten  the  idle,  boyish  folly  that  angered  your  father  some 
time  since — that  can  not  be  your  reason?" 

"  Hush,  mother,"  said  Ronald,  standing  erect  and 
dauntless;  "  I  was  coming  to  tell  you  my  secret  when  you 
met  me.  Father,  1  deceived  and  disobeyed  you.  1  fol- 
lowed Dora  Thome  to  Eastham,  and  married  her  there." 

A^low  cry  came  from  Lady  Earle's  lips.  Ronald  saw  his 
father's  face  grow  white — livid — with  anger;  but  no  word 
broke  the  awful  silence  that  fell  upon  them.  Hours  seemed 
to  pass  in  the  space  of  a  few  minutes. 

"  You  married  her,"  said  Lord  Earle,  in  a  low,  hoarse 
tfoice,  "  remembering  what  I  said?" 

"  I  married  her,"  replied  Ronald,  "  hoping  you  would 
tetract  hard,  cruel  words  that  you  never  meant.  I  could 
not  help  it,  father:  she  has  no  one  but  me;  they  would 
have  forced  her  to  marry  some  one  she  did  not  like." 

"  Enough,"  interrupted  Lord  Earle.  "  Tell  me  when 
»nd  where.  Let  me  understand  whether  the  deed  is  irre« 
vocable  or  not " 

Calmly,  but  with  trembling  lips,  Ronald  gave  him  every 
particular. 

4  Yes,  the  marriage  is  legal  enough,"  said  the  master  of 
Karlescourk     "  Von  had  to  choose  between  dnty,  honor* 


DORA   THOKNE.  40 

home,  position — and  Dora  Thorne.     You  preferred  Dora; 
you  must  leave  the  rest." 

"  Father,  you  will  forgive  me,"  cried  Ronald.  "  I  am 
your  only  son." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lord  Earle,  drearily,  "  you  are  my  only 
son.  Heaven  grant  no  other  child  may  pierce  his  father's 
heart  as  you  have  done  mine  !  Years  ago,  Ronald,  my  life 
was  blighted — my  hopes,  wishes,  ambitions,  and  plans  all 
melted  ;  they  lived  again  in  you.  I  longed  with  wicked 
impatience  for  the  time  when  you  should  carry  out  my 
dreams,  and  add  fresh  luster  to  a  grand  old  name.  I  have 
lived  in  your  life;  and  now,  for  the  sake  of  a  simple,  pretty, 
foolish  girl,  you  have  forsaken  me — you  have  deliberately 
trampled  upon  every  hope  that  I  had." 

"  Let  me  atone  for  it,"  cried  Ronald.  "  I  never  thought 
of  these  things." 

"  You  can  not  atone,"  said  Lord  Earle,'  gravely.  "  I 
can  never  trust  you  again.  From  this  time  forth  I  have 
no  son.  My  heir  you  must  be  when  the  life  you  have 
darkened  ends.  My  son  is  dead  to  me." 

There  was  no  anger  in  the  stern,  grave  face  turned 
toward  the  unhappy  young  man. 

"  I  never  broke  my  word,"  he  continued,  "  and  never 
shall.  You  have  chosen  your  own  path  ;  take  it.  You 
preferred  this  Dora  to  me  ;  go  to  her.  I  told  you  if  you 
persisted  in  your  folly,  I  would  never  look  upon  your  face 
again,  and  I  never  will." 

*'  Oh,  Rupert!"  cried  Lady  Earle  ;  "  be  merciful.  He 
is  my  only  child.  I  shall  die  if  you  send  him  from  me." 

""  He  preferred  this  Dora  to  you  or  to  me,"  said  Lord 
Earle.  "  I  am  sorry  for  you,  Helena — Heaven  knows  it 
wrings  my  heart — but  I  shall  not  break  my  word  !  I  will 
not  reproach  you,"  he  continued,  turning  to  his  son,  "  it 
would  be  a  waste  of  time  and  words;  you  knew  the  alterna- 
tive, and  are  doubtless  prepared  for  it." 

41  I  must  bear  it,  father;  the  deed  was  my  own,"  said 
Ronald. 

44  We  will  end  this  scene,"  said  Lord  Earle,  turning  from 
his  unhappy  wife,  who  was  weeping  passionately.  "  Look 
at  your  mother,  Ronald;  kiss  her  for  the  last  time  and  go 
from  her;  bear  with  you  the  memory  of  her  love  and  of 
her  tenderness,  and  of  how  you  have  repaid  them.  Take 
your  last  look  at  me.  I  have  loved  you — I  have  been 


SO  DOBA    THOENB. 

proad  of  you,  hopeful  for  you;  now  I  dismiss  you  froni 
uiy  presence,  unworthy  son  of  a  noble  race.  The  same 
roof  will  never  shelter  us  again.  Make  what  arrangements 
you  will.  You  have  some  little  fortune;  it  must  maintain 
you.  I  will  never  contribute  one  farthing  to  the  support 
of  my  lodge-keeper's  daughter.  Go  where  you  like — do  as 
you  Jika  You  have  chosen  your  own  path.  Some  day 
you  must  return  to  Earlescourt  as  its  master.  I  thank 
Heaven  it  will  be  when  the  degradation  of  my  home  and 
the  dishonor  of  my  race  can  not  toucn  rne.  Go  now;  I 
shall  expect  you  to  have  quitted  the  Hall  before  to-morrow 
morning." 

"  You  can  not  mean  it,  father,"  cried  Ronald.  "  Send 
me  from  you — punish  me — I  deserve  it;  but  let  me  see  you 
again!" 

"Never  in  life/'  said  Lord 'Earl  e,  calmly.  ''Re- 
member, when  you  see  me  lying  dead,  that  death  itself  was 
less  bitter  than  the  hour  in  which  I  learned  that  you  had 
deceived  me." 

"  Mother,"  cried  the  unhappy  youth,  "  plead  for  me!" 

"It  is  useless/*  replied  his  father;  "your  choice  has 
been  made  deliberately.  I  am  not  cruel.  If  you  write  to 
me  I  shall  return  your  letters  unopened.  1  shall  refuse  to 
see  or  hear  from  you,  or  to  allow  you  to  come  near  Earles- 
court; but  you  can  write  to  your  mother — I  do  not  forbid 
that.  She  can  see  you  under  any  roof  save  mine.  Now, 
farewell;  the  sunshine,  the  hope,  the  happiness  of  my  life 
go  with  you,  but  I  shall  keep  my  word.  See  my  solicitor, 
Mr.  Burt,  about  your  money,  and  he  will  arrange  every- 
thing in  my  place." 

**  Father,"  cried  Ronald,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  "  say 
one  kind  word,  touch  my  hand  once  again!" 

"  No,"  said  Lord  Earle,  turning  from  the  outstretched 
hand;  "  that  is  not  the  hand  of  an  honorable  man;  I  can 
not  hold  it  in  my  own. " 

Then  Ronald  bent  down  to  kiss  his  mother;  her  face  waa 
white  and  still;  she  was  not  conscious  of  his  tears  or  hia 
passionate  pleading.  Lord  Earle  raised  her  face. 

"  Go,"  said  he,  calmly;  "  do  not  let  your  mother  find 
you  here  when  she  recovers. " 

He  never  forgot  the  pleading  of  those  sorrowful  eyes,  the 
anguish  of  the  brave  younp:  face,  as  Ronald  turned  from 
him  and  loft  the  room. 


DORA    THORNS.  5j 

When  Lady  Earle  awoke  to  consciousness  of  her  misery, 
jier  son  had  left  her.  No  one  would  have  called  Lord  Earle 
hard  or  stern  who  saw  him  clasp  his  weeping  wife  hi  his 
arms,  and  console  her  by  every  kind  and  tender  word  he 
could  utter. 

Lord  Earle  did  not  know  that  in  his  wife's  heart  there 
was  a  hope  that  in  time  he  would  relent.  It  was  hard  to 
lose  her  brave  boy  for  a  few  months  or  even  years;  but  he 
would  return,  his  father  must  forgive  him,  her  sorrow 
would  be  but  for  a  time.  But  Lord  Earle,  inflexible  and 
unflinching,  knew  that  he  should  never  in  life  see  his  son 
again. 

No  one  knew  what  Lord  Earle  suffered;  as  Valentine 
Charteris  said,  he  was  too  proud  for  scenes.  He  dined  with 
Lady  Charteris  and  her  daughter,  excusing  his  wife,  and 
never  naming  his  son.  After  dinner  he  shut  himself  hi  his 

own  room,  and  suffered  his  agony  alone. 

******* 

Earlescourt  was  full  of  bustle  and  activity.  The  young 
heir  was  leaving  suddenly;  boxes  and  trunks  had  to  be 
packed.  He  did  not  say  where  he  was  going;  indeed, 
those  who  helped  him  said  afterward  that  his  face  was  fixed 
and  pale,  and  that  he  moved  about  like  one  in  a  dream. 

Everything  was  arranged  for  Ronald's  departure  by  the 
night  mail  from  Greenfield,  the  nearest  station  to  Earles- 
court. He  took  with  him  neither  horses  nor  servants; 
even  hia  valet,  Morton,  was  left  behind.  *'  My  lady  "  was 
ill.  and  shut  up  in  her  room  all  day. 

Valentine  Charteris  sat  alone  in  the  drawing-room  when 
Ronald  came  in  to  bid  her  farewell.  She  was  amazed  at 
the  unhappy  termination  of  the  interview.  She  would 
have  gone  instantly  to  Lord  Earle,  but  Ronald  told  her  it 
was  useless — no  prayers,  no  pleadings  could  change  his  de- 
termination. 

As  Ronald  stood  there,  looking  into  Valentine's  beauti- 
ful faoe,  he  remembered  his  mother's  words,  that  she  cared 
for  him  as  she  cared  for  no  other.  Could  it  be  possible 
that  this  magnificent  girl,  with  her  serene,  queenly  dignity, 
loved  him?  She  looked  distressed  by  his  sorrow.  When 
he  spoke  of  his  mother,  and  she  saw  the  quivering  lips  he 
vainly  tried  to  still,  tears  filled  her  eyes. 

"  Where  shall  you  go,"  she  asked,  "  and  what  shall  von 


58  DORA    TnORlTE. 

"  I  shall  go  to  my  wife  at  once,"  he  replied,  "  and  taka 
her  abroad.  Do  not  look  so  pained  and  grieved  for  me, 
Miss  Charteris — I  must  do  the  best  I  can.  If  my  income 
will  not  support  me,  1  must  work;  a  few  months'  study 
will  make  me  a  tolerable  artist.  Do  not  forget  my  moth- 
er, Valentin.e,  and  bid  me  '  Godspeed!' ' 

Her  heart  yearned  for  him — so  young,  so  simple,  so 
brave.  She  longed  to  tell  him  how  much  she  admired  him 
= — how  she  wanted  to  help  him,  and  would  be  his  friend 
while  she  lived.  But  Miss  Charteris  rarely  yielded  to  any 
emotion;  she  had  laid  her  hand  in  his  and  said: 

"  Good-bye,  Eonald — God  bless  you!  Be  brave;  it  is 
not  one  great  deed  that  makes  a  hero.  The  man  who 
bears  trouble  well  is  the  greatest  hero  of  all.'" 

As  he  left  his  home  in  that  quiet  starlit  night,  Ronald 
little  thought  that,  while  his  mother  lay  weeping  as  though 
her  heart  would  break,  a  beautiful  face,  wet  with  bittef 
tears,  watched  him  from  one  of  the  upper  windows,  and  hia 
father,  shut  up  alone,  listened  to  every  sound,  and  heard 
the  door  closed  behind  his  son  as  he  would  have  heard  hia 
own  death-knell. 

The  next  day  Lady  Charteris  and  her  daughter  left 
Earlescourt.  Lord  Earle  gave  no  sign  of  the  heavy  blow 
which  had  struck  him.  He  was  their  attentive  host  while 
they  remained;  he  escorted  them  to  their  carriage,  and 
parted  from  them  with  smiling  words.  Then  he  went  back 
to  the  house,  where  he  was  never  more  to  heat  the  sound 
of  the  voice  he  loved  best  on  earth. 

As  the  days  and  months  passed,  and  the  young  heir  did 
not  return,  wonder  and  surprise  reigned  at  Earlescourt. 
Lord  Earle  never  mentioned  his  son's  name.  People  said 
he  had  gone  abroad,  and  was  living  somewhere  in  Italy. 
To  Lord  Earle  it  seemed  that  his  life  was  ended;  he  had 
no  further  plans;  ambition  died  away;  the  grand  purpose 
of  his  life  would  never  be  fulfilled. 

Lady  Earle  said  nothing  of  the  trouble  that  had  fallen 
upon  her.  She  hoped  against  hope  that  the  time  would 
come  when  her  husband  would  pardon  their  only  son. 
Valentine  Charteris  bore  her  disappointment  well.  She 
never  forgot  the  simple,  chivalrous  man  who  had  clung  to 
her  friendship  and  relied  so  vainly  upon  her  influence. 

Many  lovers  sighed  round  Valentine.  One  after  anothef 
she  dismissed  them.  She  was  waiting  until  she  saw  some 


DORA    THOKNE.  55 

one  like  tfonald  Earle — like  him  in  all  things  save  the 
weakness  which  had  so  fatally  shadowed  his  life. 


CHAFFER  IX. 

IN  a  small,  pretty  villa,  on  the  banks  of  the  Arno, 
Ronald  Earle  established  himself  with  his  yonng  wife.  He 
had  gone  direct  to  Eastham,  after  leaving  Earlescourt,  his 
heart  aching  with  sorrow  for  home  and  all  that  he  had  left 
there,  and  beating  high  with  joy  at  the  thought  that  now 
nothing  stood  between  him  and  Dora.  He  told  her  of  the 
quarrel — of  his  father's  stern  words — and  Dora,  as  he  had 
foreseen,  clung  round  his  neck  and  wept. 

She  would  love  him  all  the  more,  she  said.  She  must 
love  him  enough  to  make  up  for  home  and  every  one  else.  . 

Yet,  strange  to  say,  when  Ronald  told  his  pretty,  weep- 
ing wife  all  that  happened,  he  made  no  mention  of  Valen- 
tine Charteris — he  did  not  even  utter  her  name. 

Ronald's  arrangements  were  soon  made.  He  sent  fof 
Stephen  Thome  and  his  wife,  and  told  them  how  and  when 
he  had  married  Dora. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  it,"  said  Stephen.     "No  good  will 

ever  come  of  such  :in  unequal  match.     My  girl  had  better 

Lave  stayed  at  home,  or  married  the  young  farmer  whi 

her.     The  distance  between  you  is  too  great,  Mr. 

tarle,  and  I  fear  me  you  will  find  it  out." 

Ronald  laughed  at  the  idea  that  he  should  ever  tire  of 
Dora.  How  little  these  prosaic,  commonplace  people  knew 
of  love! 

The  good  lodge-keeper  and  his  wife  parted  from  Dora 
with  many  tears.  She  was  never  to  brighten  their  home 
again  with  her  -sweet  face  and  gay  voice.  She  was  going 
away  to  strange  lands  over  the  sea.  Many  dark  forebod 
ings  haunted  them;  but  it  was  too  late  for  advice  and  in- 
terference now 

The  first  news  that  came  to  the  villa  on  the  banks  of  the 
Arno  was  that  Stephen  Thorne  and  his  wife  had  left  the 
lodge  and  taken  a  small  farm  somewhere  in  the  county  of 
Kent  Lady  Earle  hud  found  them  the  means,  and  they 
had  left  without  one  word  from  Lord  Earle.  He  never 
(Lsk  r  they  had  gone. 

lr-  father*!  anger  and  his  mother's  sorrow,  d* 


£4  DORA    THOBIHS. 

spite  his  poverty  and  loss  of  position,  Ronald  for  some 
months  was  very  happy  with  his  young  wife.  It  was  so 
pleasant  to  teach  Dora,  to  watch  her  sweet,  dimpled  face 
and  the  dark  eyes  grow  large  with  wonder;  to  heai  her 
simple,  nai  ve  remarks,  her  original  ideas;  to  see  her  pretty, 
artless  ways;  above  all,  it  was  pleasant  to  be  so  dearly 
x>ved. 

He  often  thought  that  there  never  had  been,  never  could 
be,  a  wife  so  loving  as  Dora.  He  could  not  teach  her 
much,  although  he  tried  hard.  She  sung  simple  little  bal- 
iads  sweetly  and  clearly;  but  although  master  after  master 
tried  his  best,  she  could  never  be  taught  to  play — not  even 
so  much  as  the  easy  accompaniments  of  her  own  songs. 
'.Ronald  hoped  that  with  time  and  attention  she  would  be 
able  to  sketch,  but  Dora  never  managed  it  Obediently 
enough  she- took  pencil  and  paper  in  her  hands  and  tried, 
but  the  strokes  would  never  come  straight.  Sometimes  the 
drawing  she  made  would  resemble  something  so  comical 
that  both  she  and  Ronald  laughed  heartily;  while  the  con- 
sciousness of  her  own  inferiority  grieved  her,  and  large, 
bright  tears  would  frequently  fall  upon  the  paper.  Tueu 
Konald  would  take  the  pencils  away,  and  Dora  would  cling 
around  his  neck  and  ask  him  if  he  would  not  have  been, 
happier  with  a  cleverer  wife. 

"  No,  a  thousand  times,  no,"  he  would  say;  he  loved 
Dora  better  in  her  artless  simplicity  than  he  could  have 
loved  the  cleverest  woman  in  the  world. 

"  And  you  are  quite  sure,"  said  Dora,  "  that  you  will 
never  repent  marrying  me?" 

"  No,  again,"  was  the  reply.  "  You  are  the  crowning 
joy  of  my  life." 

It  was  pleasant  to  sit  amid  the  oleanders  and  myrtles, 
reading  the  great  poems  of  the  world  to  Dora.  Even  if 
she  did  not  understand  them,  her  face  lighted  with  pleas- 
ure as  the  grand  words  came  from  Ronald's  lips.  It  was 
pleasant,  too,  to  sit  on  the  banks  of  the  Arno,  watching 
the  blue  waters  gleaming  in  the  sun.  Dora  was  at  home 
there.  •  She  would  say  little  of  books,  of  pictures,  or  music; 
but  she  could  talk  of  beautiful  Nature,  and  never  tire. 
She  knew  the  changing  colors  of  the  sky,  the  varied  hues 
of  the  waves,  the  different  voices  of  the  wind,  the  songs  of 
the  birds.  All  these  had  a  separate  and  distinct  meaning 
for  her 


DORA    THORNB.  6*5 

Bon  aid  could  not  teach  her  much  more.  She  liked  the 
beautiful  poems  he  read,  but  never  could  remember  who 
had  written  them.  She  forgot  the  names  of  great  authors, 
or  mixed  them  up  so  terribly  that  Ronald,  in  despair,  told 
her  it  would  be  better  not  to  talk  of  books  just  yet — not 
until  she  was  more  familiar  with  them. 

But  he  soon  found  out  that  Dora  could  not  read  for 
many  minutes  together.  She  would  open  her  book,  and 
make  a  desperate  attempt;  then  her  dark  eyes  would  wan- 
der away  to  the  distant  mountains,  or  to  tho  glistening 
river.  She  could  never  read  while  the  sun  shone  or  the 
birds  sung. 

Seeing  that,  Ronald  gave  up  all  attempts  at  literature  in. 
the  daytime;  when  the  lamps  were  lighted  in  the  evening, 
and  the  fair  face  of  Nature  was  shut  out,  he  tried  again, 
and  succeeded  for  ten  minutes;  then  Dora's  eyes  drooped, 
the  white  lids  with  their  jetty  fringe  closed;  and  with  great 
jismay  he  found  that  over  the  masterpieces  of  the  world 
Dora  had  fallen  asleep. 

Two  long,  bright  years  had  passed  away  before  Ronald 
began  to  perceive  that  he  could  educate  his  pretty  young 
wife  no  further.  She  was  a  strange  mixture  of  ignorance 
and  uncultivated  poetry.  She  could  speak  well;  her  voice 
was  sweet,  her  accent,  caught  from  him,  good;  alone  he 
never  noticed  any  deficiencies,  but  if  he  met  an  English 
friend  in  Florence  and  brought  him  home  to  dine,  tln-n 
Ronald  began  to  wish  that  Dora  would  leave  off  blushing 
and  grow  less  shy,  that  she  could  talk  a  little  more,  and 
that  he  might  lose  all  fear  of  her  making  some  terrible 
blunder. 

The  third  year  of  their  married  life  dawned;  Dora  we* 
just  twenty,  and  Ronald  twenty-three.  There  had  bum 
no  rejoicing  when  he  bad  attained  his  majority;  it  passed 
over  unnoticed  and  unmarked.  News  came  to  them  from 
England,  letters  •from  the  little  farm  in  Kent,  telling  of 
simple  home  intelligence,  and  letters  from  Lady  Earle, 
always  sad  and  stained  with  tears.  Sho  had  no  good  n<>ws 
II  them.  Lord  Earle  was  well,  but  he  would  never 
allow  his  son's  name  to  be  mentioned  before  him,  and  she 
longed  to  see  her  son.  In  all  her  letters  Lady  Earle  said: 

**  Give  mv  l<>v.-  to  Dora." 

In  tins  tin-  third  yc.ir  of  his  married  life,  Ronald  began 
'j  of  poverty.  His  income  was  not  more 


66  DOHA    THORSTE. 

than  three  nundred  a  year.  To- Dora  this  seemed  boundless 
riches;  but  the  heir  of  Earlescourt  had  spent  more  in  dress 
and  cigars.  Now  debts  began  to  press  upon  him;  writing 
home  he  knew  was  useless.  He  would  not  ask  Lady  Earle, 
although  he  knew  that  she  would  have  parted  with  the  last 
jewel  in  her  case  for  him. 

Ronald  gave  himself  up  to  the  study  of  painting.  A 
pretty  little  studio  was  built,  and  Dora  spent  long  hours  in 
Admiring  both  her  husband  and  his  work.  He  gave  prom- 
ise of  being  some  day  a  good  artist — not  a  genius.  The 
world  would -never  rave  about  his  pictures;  but,  in  time, 
&e  would  be  a  conscientious,  painstaking  artist.  Amoug 
his  small  coterie  of  friends  some  approved,  others  laughed. 

*'  Why  not  go  to  the  Jews?"  asked  fashionable  young 
men.  "  Earlescourt  must  be  yours  some  day.  You  can 
borrow  money  if  you  like." 

Ronald  steadily  refused  to  entertain  the  idea.  He  won* 
dered  at  modern  ideas  of  honor — that  men  saw  no  shame 
in  borrowing  upon  the  lives  of  their  nearest  and  dearest, 
yet  thought  it  a  disgrace  to  be  a  follower  of  one  of  the 
grandest  of  arts.  He  made  one  compromise — that  was  for 
Bis  father's  sake.  As  an  artist,  he  was  known  by  Dora's 
name  of  Thorne,  and,  before  long,  Ronald  Thome's  pict- 
ures were  in  great  request.  There  was  no  dash  of  genius 
about  them;  but  they  were  careful  studies.  Some  tew 
were  sold,  and  the  price  realized  proved  no  unwelcome  ad-^ 
dition  to  a  small  income. 

Ronald  became  known  in  Florence.  People  who  had 
not  thought  much  of  Mr.  Earle  were  eager  to  know  the 
clever  artist  and  his  pretty,  shy  wife.  Then  the  trial  of 
Ronald  Earle  began  in  earnest.  Had  he  lived  always  a\vay 
from  the  world,  out  of  society,  the  chances  are  that  hia 
fate  would  have  been  different;  but  invitations  began  to 
pour  in  upon  him  and  Dora,  and  Ronald,  half  tired  of  hia 
solitude,  although  he  never  suspected  it,  accepted  them 
eagerly. 

Dora  did  not  like  the  change;  she  felt  lonely  and  lost 
where  Ronald  was  so  popular  und  so  much  at  home. 

Among  those  who  eagerly  sought  Ronald's  society  waa 
the  pretty  coquette,  the  Countess  Rosali,  an  English  lady 
who  had  married  the  Count  Rosali,  a  Florentine  noble  of 
great  wealth. 

No  one  in  Florence  was  half  so  popular  as  the  fair 


DORA  THORNE.  67 

ess.  Among  the  dark,  glowing  beauties  of  sunny  Italy 
she  was  like  a  bright  sunbeam.  Her  fair,  piquant  face 
was  charming  from  its  delicate  bright  coloring  and  gay 
smiles;  her  hair,  of  the  rare  color  painted  by  the  old  mas- 
ters, yet  so  seldom  seen,  was  of  pure  golden  hue,  looking 
always  as  though  the  sun  shone  upon  it. 

Countess  Rosali,  there  was  no  denying  the  fact,  certainly 
did  enjoy  a  little  flirtation.  Her  grave,  serious  husband 
knew  it,  and  looked  on  quite  calmly.  To  his  grave  mind 
the  pretty  countess  resembled  a  butterfly  far  more  than  a 
rational  being.  He  knew  that,  though  she  might  laugh 
and  talk  to  others,  though  she  might  seek  admiration  and 
enjoy  delicate  flattery,  yet  in  her  heart  she  was  true  as 
steel.  She  loved  bright  colors,  and  everything  else  that 
was  gay  and  brilliant.  She  had  gathered  the  roses  ;  per- 
haps some  one  else  had  her  share  of  thorns. 

The  fair,  dainty  lady  had  a  great  desire  to  see  Mr. 
Thome  She  had  seen  one  of  his  pictures  at  the  house  of 
one  of  her  friends — a  simple  little  thing,  but  it  had  charmed 
her.  It  was  merely  a  bouquet  of  English  wild  flowers;  but 
then  they  were  so  naturally  painted!  The  bluebells  looked 
as  though  they  had  just  been  gathered.  One  almost  fan- 
cied dew-drops  on  the  delicate  wild  roses;  a  spray  of  pink 
hawthorn,  daisies  and  golden  buttercups  mingled  with 
woodbine  and  meadow-sweet,  told  sweet  stories  of  the  En- 
glish meadows. 

"  Whoever  painted  that,"  said  the  fair  countess,  "  loves 
flowers,  and  knows  what  English  flowers  mean." 

The  countess  did  not  rest  until  Ronald  had  been  intro- 
duced to  her,  and  then  she  would  know  his  wife.  Her 
grave,  silent  husband  smiled  at  her  evident  admiration  of 
the  handsome  young  Englishman.  She  liked  his  clear, 
Saxon  face  and- fair  hair;  she  liked  his  simple,  kindly  man- 
ner, so  full  of  chivalry  and  truth.  She  liked  pretty  Dora, 
too  ;  but  there  were  times  when  the  dainty,  fastidious 
countess  looked  at  the  young  wife  in  wonder,  for,  as  she 
said  one  evening  to  her  husband: 

"There  is  something  in  Mrs.  Thorne  that  puzzles  me — 
she  does  not  always  speak  or  look  like  a  lady." 

Few  days  passed  without  bringing  Ronald  and  Dora  to 
the  Villa  Rosali.  It  would  have  been  better  for  Ronald 
had  he  never  left  his  pretty  home  on  the  banks  of  the 
Arno. 


DOBA    THOKNE. 


CHAPTER  X. 

GOIXG  into  society  increased  the  expenses  which  Ronaia 
and  his  wife  found  already  heavy  enough.  There  were 
times  when  the  money  received  from  the  sale  of  his  pict- 
ures failed  in  liquidating  bills;  then  Rouald  grew  anxioua, 
and  Dora,  not  knowing  what  bettter  to  do,  wept  and 
blamed  herself  for  all  the  trouble.  It  was  a  relief  then  to 
leave  the  home  over  which  the  clouds  lowered  and  seek  the 
gay  villa,  where  something  pleasant  and  amusing  was 
always  going  on. 

The  countess  gathered  around  her  the  elite  of  Florentine 
society;  she  selected  her  friends  and  acquaintances  as  care- 
fully as  she  selected  her  dresses,  jewels,  and  flowers.  !3he 
refused  to  know  "  bores "  and  **  nobodies;"  her  lady 
friends  must  be  pretty,  piquant,  or  fashionable;  any  gen- 
tleman admitted  into  her  charmed  circle  must  have  genius, 
wit,  or  talent  to  recommend  him.  Though  grave  matrons 
shook  their  heads  arid  looked  prudish  when  the  Countess 
Rosali  was  mentioned,  yet  to  belong  to  her  set  was  to  re- 
ceive the  "  stamp  of  fashion."  No  day  passed  without 
some  amusement  at  the  villa — picnic,  excursion,  soiree, 
dance,  or,  what  its  fair  mistress  preferred,  private  theatri- 
cals and  charades. 

"  iielp  me,"  she  said  one  morning,  as  Ronald  and  Dora, 
in  compliance  with  her  urgent  invitation,  came  to  spend 
the  day  at  the  villa — "  help  me;  1  want  to  do  something 
that  will  surprise  every  one.  There  are  some  great  English 
people  coming  to  Florence — one  of  your  heiresses,  who  is 
at  the  same  time  a  beauty.  We  must  have  some  grand 
charades  or  tableaus.  What  would  you  advise?.  Think  of 
something  original  that  will  take  Florence  by  surprise. " 

"  Wishing  any  one  to  be  original,"  said  Ronald,  smiling 
at  her  quick,  eager  ways,  "  immediately  deprives  one  of  an 
thought  I  must  have  time;  it  seems  to  me  you  have  ex- 
hausted every  subject" 

"  An  artist  has  never-failing  resources,"  she  replied; 
"  when  every  '  fount  of  in«  pi  Cation  '  is  closed  it  will  be  time 
to  tell  me  there  are  no  idea*.  You  must  have  seen  many 
uharades.  Mrs-  Thorne,"  she  said,  turning 


BORA    THOR1TB.  01 

Dora;  "  they  are  very  popular  in  England.  Tell  me  of 
some." 

Dora  blushed.  She  thought  of  the  lodge  and  its  one 
small  parlor,  and  then  felt  wretched  and  uncomfortable, 
out  of  place,  and  unhappy. 

*'  I  have  never  seen  any  charades,"  she  said,  stiffly,  an£ 
with  crimson  cheeks. 

The  countess  opened  her  blue  eyes  in  surprise,  and 
Ronald  looked  anxiously  from  one  to  the  other. 

*'  My  wife  was  too  young  when  we  were  married  to  have 
seen  much  of  the  world,  he  said,  inwardly  hoping  thut 
the  tears  he  saw  gathering  in  Dora's  dark  eyes  would  not 
fall. 

*'  Ah,  then,  she  *vill  be  of  no  use  in  our  council,"  re- 
plied the  countess,  quickly.  "  Let  us  go  out  on  the  ter- 
race: there  is  always  inspiration  under  an  Italian  sky." 

She  led  the  way  to  a  pretty  veranda  on  the  terrace,  and 
they  sat  under  the  shade  of  a  large  spreading  vine. 

"  Now  we  can  discuss  my  difficulty  in  peace,"  said  the 
lady,  in  her  pretty,  imperious  way.  **  I  will,  with  your 
permission,  tell  yon  some  of  my  ideas/' 

The  countess  was  not  particularly  gifted,  but  Ronald  was 
charmed  by  the  series  of  pictures  she  placed  before  him,  all 
well  chosen,  with  startling  points  of  interest,  scenes  from 
noble  poems,  pictures  from  fine  old  tragedies.  She  never 
paused  or  seemed  tired,  while  Dora  sat,  her  face  still 
flushed,  looking  more  awkward  and  ill  at  ease  than  Ronald 
had  ever  seen  her.'  For  the  first  time,  as  they  sat  under 
the  viue  that  morning,  Ronald  contrasted  his  wife  with  his 
dainty,  brilliant  hostess,  and  felt  that  she  lost  by  the  con- 
trast— "  awkward  and  ill  at  ease,"  self-conscious  to  a  mis- 
erable degree.  For  the  first  time  Ronald  felt  slightly 
ashamed  of  Dora,  and  wished  that  she  knew  more,  and 
3ould  take  some  part  in  the  conversation.  Dimples  and 
smiles,  curling  rings  of  dark  hair,  and  pretty  rosebud  lips 
were,  he  thought,  all  very  well,  but  a  man  grew  tired  of 
them  in  time,  unless  there  was  something  to  keep  up  the 
charm.  But  poor  little  Dora  had  no  resources  beyond  her 
smiles  and  tears.  She  sat  shrinking  and  timid,  half  fright* 
em-il  at  the  bright  lady  who  knew  so  much  and  told  it  so 
well;  fooling  her  heart  cold  with  its  first  dread  that  Ronald 
was  not  pleased  with  her.  Her  eyes  wandered  to  the  far- 
off  h;i'  .  AhT  "-..ild  it  be  that  he  would  ever  tire  of  her. 


60  DORA    THORNS. 

and  wished  that  he  had  married  some  one  like  Himself! 
The  very  thought  pierced  her  heart,  and  the  timid  young 
wife  sat  with  a  sorrowful  look  upon  her  face  that  took 
away  all  its  simple  beauty. 

'*  1  will  show  you  a  sketch  of  the  costume,"  said  the 
countess;  "  it  is  in  my  desk.  Pray  excuse  me." 

She  was  gone  in  an  instant,  and  Dora  was  alone  with  hei 
fmsband. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Dora,"  he  said,  quickly,  **  do  look 
a  little  brighter;  what  will  the  countess  think  of  you?  You 
look  like  a  frightened  school-girl. " 

It  was  an  injudicious  speech.  If  Ronald  had  only  ca* 
ressed  her,  all  would  have  been  sunshine  again;  as  it  was. 
the  first  impatient  words  she  had  ever  heard  from  him 
emote  her  with  a  new,  strange  pain,  and  the  tears  over- 
flowed. 

"Do  not — pray— never  do  that,"  said  Ronald;  "we 
shall  be  the  laughing-stock  of  all  Florence.  Well-bred 
people  never  give  way  to  emotion." 

"  Here  is  the  sketch,"  said  the  countess,  holding  a  small 
drawing  in  her  hand.  Her  quick  glance  took  in  Dora's 
tears  and  the  disturbed  expression  of  Ronald's  face. 

With  kind  and  graceful  tact  the  countess  gave  Dora  time 
to  recover  herself;  but  that  was  the  last  time  she  ever  in- 
vited the  young  artist  and  his  wife  alone.  Countess  Rosali 
had  a  great  dread  of  all  domestic  scenes. 

Neither  Dora  nor  Ronald  ever  alluded  again  to  this  little 
incident;  it  had  one  bad  effect — it  frightened  the  timid 
young  wife,  and  made  her  dread  going  into  society.  When 
invitations  to  grand  houses  came,  she  would  say,  "  Go  alone, 
Ronald;  if  1  am  with  you  they  are  sure  to  ask  me  ever  so 
many  questions  which  I  can  not  answer;  then  you  will  be 
Vexed  with  me,  and  I  shall  be  ashamed  of  my  ignorance.  •'* 

"  Why  do  you  not  learn?"  Ronald  would  ask,,  disarmed 
by  her  sweet  humility. 

"  1  can  not,"  said  Dora,  shaking  her  pretty  head.  *'  Tha 
only  lesson  I  ever  learned  in  my  life  was  how  to  love  you." 

"  You  have  learned  that  by  heart,"  replied  Ronald. 
Then  he  would  kiss  her  pitiful  little  face  and  go  without 
her. 

By  slow  degrees  it  became  a  settled  rule  that  Dora  should 
stay  at  home  and  Ronald  go  oufc.  He  had  no  scruples  in 
leaving  her — she  never  objected;  her  face  was  always  smil« 


DORA    THORNE.  'o,. 

ing  and  bright  when  he  went  away,  and  the  same  wfcen  ,ia 
returned.  He  said  to  himself  that  Dora  was  happier  at 
home  than  elsewhere,  that  fine  ladies  frightened  her  and 
made  her  unhappy. 

Their  ways  in  life  now  became  separate  and  distinct, 
Ronald  goiug  more  than  ever  into  society,  Dora  clingiug 
more  to  the  safe  shelter  of  home. 

But  society  was  expensive  in  two  ways — not  only  from 
the  outlay  in  dress  and  other  necessaries,  but  in  the  time 
taken  from  work.  There  were  many  days  when  Ronald 
never  went  near  his  studio,  and  only  returned  home  late 
in  the  evening  to  leave  early  in  the  morning.  Ho  was  only 
human,  this  young  hero  who  had  sacrificed  so  much  for 
love;  and  there  were  times,  after  some  brilliant  fete  or 
soiree,  when  the  remembrance  of  home,  Dora,  hard  work, 
narrow  means,  would  come  to  him  like  a  heavy  weight  or 
the  shadow  of  a  dark  cloud. 

Not  that  he  loved  her  less — pretty,  tender  Dora;  but 
there  was  not  one  feeling  or  taste  in  common  between  them. 
Harder  men  would  have  tired  of  her  long  before.  They 
never  cared  to  speak  much  of  home,  for  Dora  noticed  that 
Ronald  was  always  sad  after  a  letter  from  Lady  Earle.  Tho 
time  came  when  she  hestitated  to  speak  of  her  own  parents, 
lest  he  should  remember  nmih  that  she  would  have  liked 
him  to  forget. 

If  any  true  friend  had  stepped  in  then,  and  warned  them, 
life  would  have  been  a  different  story  for  Rona/d  Ear  la 
and  his  wife. 

Ronald's  story  became  known  in  Florence.  He  was  the 
Bon  of  a  wealthy  English  peer,  who  had  offended  his  father 
by  a  "  low  "  marriage;  in  time  he  would  succeed  to  the  title, 
.Hospitalities  were  lavished  upon  him,  the  best  houses  in 
Florence  were  thrown  open  to  him,  and  he  was  eagerly 
mod  there.  When  people  met  him  continually  unac- 
companied by  his  young  wife  they  smiled  significantly,  and 
bright  eyes  grew  soft  with  pity.  Poor,  pretty  Dora! 

.aid  never  knew  how  the  long  hours  of  Kis  absence 
were  spent  by  Dora.  She  never  looked  sad  or  weary  to 
him,  he  never  saw  anj  traces  of  tears,  yet  Dora  shed 
.  Through  the  long  sunny  hours  and  far  into  the 
night  she  sat  alone,  thinking  of  the  home  she  had  left  in 
Jar-ofT  Enghnu? — where  she  had  been  loved  and  worshiped 
by  ]  •  ••  ough,  homely,  honest  father  and  a  loving  mother 


68  DORA    THORTSTE. 

—thinking  too,  of  Ralph  and  his  pretty,  quiet  homes  3ad 
in  the  green  fields,  where  she  would  have  been  honored  aa 
its  mistress,  where  no  fine  ladies  would  have  vexed  her 
with  questions,  and  no  one  would  have  thought  her  igno- 
rant or  awkward;  thinking  of  all  these  things,  yet  loving 
Ronald  noue  the  less,  except  that  a  certain  kind  of  fear 
began  to  mingle  with  her  love. 

Gradually,  slowly,  but  surely,  the  fascination  of  the  gay 
and  brilliant  society  in  which  Ronald  was  so  eagerly  court- 
c-d  laid  hold  of  him.  He  did  not  sin  willfully  or  conscious- 
ly; little  by  little  a  distaste  for  his  own  home  and  a 
weariness  of  Dora's  society  overcame  him.  He  was  never 
unkind  to  her,  for  Ronald  was  a  gentleman;  but  he  lin- 
gered no  more  through  the  long  sunny  morning  by  her  side. 
He  gave  up  all  attempts  to  educate  her.  He  ceased  to 
tease  her  about  books;  he  never  offered  to  read  to  her;  and 
pretty,  simple  Dora,  taught  by  the  keen  instinct  of  love, 
noted  it  all. 

Ronald  saw  some  little  change  in  her.  The  dimples  and 
smiles  had  almost  vanished  from  her  face.  He  seldom 
heard  the  laugh  that  had  once  been  so  sweet  to  him.  There 
was  retiring  grace  in  her  manner  that  suited  her  well.  He 
thought  she  was  c&tching  the  **  tone  of  good  society,"  and 
liked  the  change. 

Some  natures  become  ennobled  under  the  pressure  of  ad- 
versity; but  limited  means  and  petty  money  cares  had  no 
good  affect  upon  Ronald  Earle.  He  fretted  under  them. 
He  could  do  nothing  as  other  people  did.  He  could  not 
purchase  a  magnificent  bouquet  for  the  countess;  his 
means  would  not  permit  it  He  could  not  afford  a  horse 
such  as  all  his  gentlemen  friends  rode.  Adversity  devel- 
oped no  good  qualities  in  him;  the  discipline  was  hardei, 
and  sterner  still  that  made  of  him  a  true  man  at  last 

Donald  went  on  with  his  painting  fitfully,  sometimes 
producing  a  good  picture,  but  often  failing. 

The  greatest  patron  of  the  fine  arts  in  Florence  was  the 
Prince  di  Borgezi.  His  magnificent  palace  was  like  one 
picture-gallery.  He  saw  some  sketches  of  Ronald's,  and 
gave  an  order  to  him  to  paint  a  large  picture,  leaving  him 
to  choose  the  subject.  In  vain  by  night  and  by  day  did 
Ronald  ponder  on  what  that  subject  should  be.  He  longed 
to  make  his  name  immortal  by  it  He  thought  once  of 
Tennyson's  "  JVvra,"  and  of  sketching  his  wife  for  tha 


DORA    THOR2HL  I* 

principal  figure.  He  did  make  a  sketch,  bat  he  touni 
that  he  could  not  paint  Dora's  face;  he  could  not  place  the 
dimpling  smiles  and  bright  blushes  on  canvas,  and  they 
were  the  chief  charm.  lie  therefore  abandoned  the  idea. 

Standing  one  day  where  the  sunbeams  fell  lightly  through 
the  thick  myrtles,  an  inspiration  came  to  him.  lie  would 
paint  a  picture  of  Queen  Guinevere  in  her  gay  sweet  youth 
and  bright  innocent  beauty — Guinevere  with  her  lovely 
face  and  golden  hair,  the  white  plumes  waving  and  jewels 
flashing;  the  bright  figure  on  the  milk- white  palfrey  shin- 
ing in  the  mellow  sunlight  that  came  through  the  green 
trees. 

Lancelot  should  ride  by  her  siue:  he  could  see  every  de- 
tail  of  the  picture;  he  knew  just  the  noble,  brave,  tendet 
face  Sir  Lancelot  should  have;  but  where  could  he  find  a 
model  for  Guinevere?  Where  was  there  a  face  that  would 
realize  his  artist  dreams  of  her?  The  painting  was  hall 
completed  before  he  thought  of  Valentine  Charteris  and 
her  magnificent  blonde  beauty — the  very  ideal  of  Queen 
Guinevere. 

With  renewed  energy  Ronald  set  to  work.  Every  feat- 
ure of  that  perfect  face  was  engraved  upon  his  mind,  lie 
made  sketch  after  sketch,  until,  in  its  serene,  sweet  love- 
liness, Valentine's  face  smiled  upon  him. 


CHAPTER  XL 

**  QUEEN  GUINEVERE  "  was  a  success  far  beyond  Ron- 
ald's dearest  hopes.  •  Artists  and  amateurs,  connoisseurs  ot 
all  ranks  and  degrees  were  delighted  with  it  The  great 
charm  of  the  picture  was  the  lovely  young  face.  "  whom 

"     " 


any  woman  so  perfectly  beautiful?"  Such  were  the 
questions  that  people  never  seemed  tired  of  repeating. 

The  picture  was  hung  in  the  gallery  of  the  palace,  and 
the  Prince  di  Borgezi  became  one  of  Ronald's  best  patrons. 

The  prince  gave  a  grand  ball  in  honor  of  a  beautiful  En- 
glish lady,  who,  with  her  family,  had  just  arrived  in  Flor- 
ence. Countess  Rosali  raved  about  her,  wisely  making  a 
friend  where  any  one  else  would  have  feared  a  rival. 

Ronald  had  contrived  an  invitation,  but  was  prevented 
from  attending.  All  the  ('lite  of  Florence  were  there,  and 
WHS  the  excitement  whnu  Countess  Unaali 


04  DORA    THORNE. 

ball-room  with  an  exceedingly  beautiful  woman — a  queenly 
blonde — the  lady  about  whom  all  Florence  was  interested 
— an  English  heiress,  clever  as  she  was  fair,  speaking  French 
with  a  courtly  grace  and  Italian  with  fluent  skill;  and  when 
the  prince  stood  before  her  he  recognized  in  one  moment 
the  original  of  his  famous  '*  Guinevere/* 

The  countess  was  in  danger — a  fairer,  brighter  star  had1 
arisen.  Valentine  Charteris  was  the  belle  of  the  most 
brilliant  ball  ever  given  in  Florence. 

When  the  prince  bad  received  his  guest,  and  danced  once 
With  Miss  Charteris,  he  asked  her  if  she  would  like  to  see 
his  celebiated  picture,  the  **  Guinevere,"  whose  fame  was 
spreading  fast. 

"  Nothing,"  she  said,  "  would  please  her  better;"  and 
as  the  Countess  Rosali  stood  near,  the  prince  included  her 
in  the  invitation. 

"  Certainly;  I  never  tire  of  the  '  Guinevere,' never  weary 
of  the  artist's  triumph,  for  he  is  one  of  the  most  Valued  of 
my  friends. " 

Prince  di  Borgezi  smiled,  thinking  how  much  of  the  fah 
coquette's  admiration  went  to  the  artist's  talent,  and  how 
much  to  hia  handsome  face. 

They  entered  the  long  gallery,  where  some  of  the  finest 
pictures  in  Italy  were  hung.  The  prince  led  the  ladies  to 
the  southern  end.  Valentine  saw  before  her  a  magnificent 
painting — tall  forest  trees,  whose  thick  branches  were  in- 
terwoven, every  green  ler;f  distinct  and  clear;  she  saw  tha 
mellow  light  that  fell  through  them,  the  milk-white  palfrey 
and  the  jeweled  harness,  the  handsome  knight  who  rode 
near;  and  then  she  saw  her  own  face,  bright,  smiling, 
glowing  with  beauty,  bright  in  innocence,  sweet  in  purity. 
Valentine  stared  in  astonishment,  and  her  companion 
smiled. 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  about  the  resemblance,-"  said 
the  countess.  "  The  artist  has  made  you  Queen  Guinevere, 
Miss  Charteris." 

"  Yes,"  said  Valentine,  wonderingly; "  it  is  my  own  face 
How  came  it  there?.  "Who  is  the  artist?" 

"  His  name  is  Ronald  Thome,"  replied  the  couritesk 
'*  There  is  quite  a  romance  about  him. 

The  countess  saw  Miss  Charteris  grow  pale  and  silent 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  him?''"  inquired  th*  <xrante» 
*Do  von  know  ' 


DOHA  THOKNE.  o5 

"Yes,"  said  Valentine,  "my  family  and  his  have  been 
on  intimate  terms  for  years.  I  knew  that  he  was  in  Italy 
with  Ms  wife." 

"Ah,"  rejoined  the  countess,  eagerly,  "then  perhaps 
you  know  all  about  his  marriage  ?  Who  was  Mrs.  Thome? 
Why  did  he  quarrel  with  his  tather  ?  Do  tell  us,  Miss 
Charteris." 

"Nay,"  said  Valentine;  "if  Mrs.  Thorne  has  any  se- 
crets, I  shall  not  reveal  them.  I  must  tell  mamma  they 
are  in  Florence.  We  must  call  and  see  them." 

"  I  was  fond  of  Mrs.  Thorne  once,"  said  the  countess, 
plaintively,  "  but  really  there  is  nothing  in  her." 

"  There  must  be  something  both  estimable  and  lovable," 
replied  Valentine,  quickly,  "or  Mr.  Thorne  would  never 
have  married  her." 

Prince  di  Borgezi  smiled  approval  of  the  young  lady's 
reply. 

"You  admire  my  picture,  Miss  Charteris?"  he  asked. 

"  The  more  so  because  it  is  the  work  of  an  old  friend," 
said  Valentine;  and  again  the  prince  admired  the  grace  of 
her  words. 

"Any  other  woman  in  her  place,"  he  thought,  "would 
have  blushed  and  coquetted.  How  charming  she  is  !" 

From  that  moment  Prince  di  Borgezi  resolved  to  win 
Valentine  if  he  could. 

Lady  Charteris  was  half  pleased,  half  sorry,  to  hear 
that  Ronald  was  in  Florence.  No  one  deplored  his  rash, 
foolish  marriage  more  than  she  did.  She  thought  Lord 
Earle  stern  and  cruel;  she  pitied  the  young  man  she  had 
once  liked  so  well,  yet  for  all  that  she  did  not  feel  inclined1 
to  renew  the  acquaintance.  When  Valentine  asked  her 
to  drive  next  morning  to  the  little  villa  on  the  banks  of 
the  Arno,  she  at  first  half  declined. 

"  I  promised  to  be  Ronald's  friend  years  ago,"  said  Val- 
entine, calmly;  "and  now,  mamma,  you  must  allow  me 
to  keep  my  word.  We  must  visit  his  wife,  and  pay  her 
every  attention.  To  refuse  would  imply  a  doubt  of  me, 
and  that  I  could  not  endure." 

"You  shall  do  as  you  like,  my  dear,"  replied  Lady  Char- 
teris; "the  young  IIKUI'S  mother  is  my  dearest  friend,  and 
for  her  sake  we  v,-ill  be  kind  to  him." 

*  v;  *  *  *  * 

It  was  one  of  those  Italkai  mowings  when  the  fair  face 


66  DORA  THOENE. 

of  Nature  seemed  bathed  in  beauty.  The  air  was  full  of 
the  music  of  birds ;  the  waters  of  the  Arno  rolled  lan- 
guidly on;  oleanders  and  myrtles  were  in  full  bloom;  birds 
sung  as  they  sing  only  under  the  blue  sky  of  Italy. 

It  was  not  yet  noon  when  Lady  Charteris  and  her  daugh- 
ter reached  the  little  villa.  Before  they  came  to  the  house, 
Valentine  caught  one  glimpse  of  a  pretty,  pale  face  with 
large  dark  eyes.  Could  that  be  pretty,  smiling  Dora? 
There  were  the  shining  rings  of  dark  hair;  but  where  were 
tjie  smiles  Ronald  had  described  ?  That  was  not  a  happy 
face.  Care  and  sorrow  were  in  every  line  of  it. 

They  were  told  that  Mr.  Thome  was  in  his  studio,  and 
would  see  them  there.  They  had  sent  no  card,  and  Ronald 
believed  the  "two  ladies "  to  have  called  on  some  business 
connected  with  pictures.  He  started  with  surprise  when 
Lady  Charteris  and  Valentine  entered.  There  were  a  few 
words  of  confused  greeting,  a  hurried  explanation  of  the 
circumstances  that  led  Sir  Hugh  to  Florence;  and  then 
Valentine  looked  long  and  steadily  at  the  only  man  she  had 
ever  cared  for.  He  was  altered;  the  frank,  handsome  face 
looked  worn  and  thin;  it  had  a  restless  expression.  He 
did  not  look  like  a  man  who  had  found  peace.  Lady  Char- 
teris told  him  of  her  last  visit  to  Earlescourt — how  his 
mother  never  ceased  speaking  of  him,  and  his  father  still 
preserved  the  same  rigid,  unbending  silence. 

"  I  have  seen  your  picture,"  said  Lady  Charteris. 
"How  well  you  remembered  my  daughter's  face." 

"It  is  one  not  easily  forgotten,"  he  replied;  and  then 
another  deep  silence  fell  upon  him. 

"Where  is  Mrs.  Earle  ?"  asked  Valentine.  "Our  visit 
is  chiefly  to  her.  Pray  introduce  her  to  mamma.  I  know 
her  already  by  description." 

"  I  left  my  wife  in  the  garden,"  said  Ronald;  "  shall  we 
join  her  there  ?" 

They  followed  him  into  the  pretty  sunlit  garden,  where 
Valentine  had  seen  the  pale,  sad  face. 

"  My  wife  is  timid,"  said  Ronald,  "always  nervous  with 
strangers." 

Dora  was  sitting  under  the  shade  of  a  large  flowering  tree, 
her  hands  folded,  and  her  eyes  riveted  on  the  distant  hills; 
there  was  something  in  her  listless  manner  that  touched 
both  ladies  more  than  any  words  could  have  done.  A 
deep  flush  crimsoned  her  face  when  Ronald  and  his  gueets 


DORA  THOBNE.  67 

stood  before  her.  She  rose,  not  ungracefully;  her  eyelids 
drooped  in  their  old  shy  manner.  As  Ronald  introduced 
his  wife,  something  in  the  girl's  wistful  face  went  straight 
to  Lady  Charteris's  heart.  She  spoke  not  a  word,  but 
folded  Dora  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her  as  her  own  mother 
might  have  done. 

"You  must  learn  to  love  us,"  said  Valentine  ;  "we  are 
your  husband's  dearest  friends." 

Poor  Dora  had  no  graceful  words  ready;  her  heart  was 
full  of  gratitude,  but  she  knew  not  how  to  express  it. 
Ronald  looked  at  her  anxiously,  and  she  caught  his 
glance. 

"Now,"  thought  Dora,  "he  will  not  be  pleased."  She 
tried  to  say  something  of  her  pleasure  in  seeing  them,  but 
the  words  were  so  stiff  and  ungracious  that  Ronald  has- 
tened to  interrupt  them. 

A  luncheon  of  fruit  and  wine  was  brought  out  into  the 
garden,  and  they  talked  merrily — of  Earlescourt  and  the 
dear  old  friends  there  ;  of  the  ball  and  Prince  di  Borgezi; 
in  all  of  which  Dora  felt  that  she  had  no  share. 

Who  was  this  beautiful  lady,  with  her  fair  face  and 
golden  hair  ? 

The  same  face  she  saw  that  Roland  had  painted  in  his 
picture,  and  every  one  admired.  How  graceful  she  was  ! 
How  she  talked  !  The  words  seemed  to  ripple  like  music 
over  her  perfect  lips.  Where  had  Roland  known  her  ?  Why 
had  he  never  told  her  of  Miss  Charteris  ? 

"Ah  !"  thought  Dora,  "  if  I  could  be  like  her !"  And  a 
sudden  sense  of  wonder  struck  her  that  Ronald  had  not 
loved  and  married  this  fair  and  gracious  lady. 

Valentine  neither  forgot  nor  neglected  her.  She  tried  to 
draw  her  into  their  conversation,  but  Dora  replied  so  un- 
easily and  so  briefly  to  all  her  remarks  that  she  saw  the 
truest  kindness  was  to  leave  her  alone. 

They  spent  a  few  hours  pleasantly,  and  Lady  Charteris 
would  not  leave  until  Ronald  promised  to  take  his  wife  to 
spend  a  long  day  with  them. 

"I  can  hardly  promise  for  Dora,"  said  Ronald,  kindly  ; 
"  she  seldom  leaves  home." 

"  Mrs.  Earle  will  not  refuse  me,"  said  Valentine,  witn 
that  smile  which  no  one  ever  resisted.  "  She  will  come  with 
you,  and  we  will  make  her  happy." 


68  DORA    THORNS. 

When  the  day  was  settled  the  ladies  drove  away,  arid 
Ronald  watched  the  carriage  until  it  was  out  of  sight. 

"  My  dear  Valentine,"  cried  Lady  Charteris,  when  they 
were  out  of  hearing,  "my  dear  child,  what  could  p<  ; 
Ronald  Earle?  What  could  he  see  in  that  shy,  awkward 
girl  to  induce  him  to  give  up  everything  and  go  into  exita 
for  her  sake?  She  is  not  even  pretty." 

"  She  is  altered,  mamma,"  began  Valentine. 

"  Altered!"  interrupted  Lady  Charteris.  "  1  should 
imagine  she  is,  and  unhappy,  too.  She  is  frightened  to 
speak — she  has  no  style,  no  manner,  no  dignity.  He  must 
have  been  insane." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  he  loved  her,"  said  Valentine,  warm* 
ly,  "  and  loves  her  now." 

"That  is  just  the  mystery,"  replied  her  mother — "a 
clever  man  like  he  is,  accustomed  to  intelligent  and  beau- 
tiful women.  1  shall  never  understand  it." 

"  Do  not  try,"  said  Valentine,  calmly.  "  She  is  evi- 
dently nervous  and  sensitive.  I  mean  to  be  a  true  friend 
to  Ronald,  mamma;  1  shall  try  to  train  and  form  his 
wife." 

Poor  Dora!  She  was  already  trained  and  formed,  but 
no  one  would  understand  that.  People  do  not  expect  the 
perfume  of  the  rose  in  a  wild  strawberry  blossom,  or  the 
fragrance  of  the  heliotrope  in  a  common  bluebell.  Yet 
Ihey  wondered  that  in  this  simple  girl,  ignorant  of  the  world 
and  its  ways,  they  did  not  find  a  cultivated  mind,  a  grace- 
ful manner,  and  a  dignified  carriage.  Their  only  thought 
was  to  train  and  form  her,  whereas  Nature  and  not  Art  had 
done  both. 

"  Dora,"  said  Ronald,  as  the  carriage  disappeared  from 
view,  "  try  to  like  Lady  Charteris  and  her  daughter;  they 
are  so  kindly  disposed  toward  you.  I  shall  be  so  pleased 
to  see  you  good  friends." 

"1  will  try,"  she  replied,  cheerfully.  "How  beautiful 
she  is,  Ronald!  That  is  the  lady  you  call  Guinevere  in 
your  picture.  Tell  me  about  her.  You  remember  her  face 
exactly;  should  you  remember  mine  as  well?" 

It  was  the  first  touch  of  jealousy  stirring  in  the  simple, 
loving  heart. 

"  Far  better,"  said  Ronald,  with  a  smile;  and  then  he 
looked  up  in  alarm,  for  Dora  was  weeping  vildly,  and 
clinging  t.o  him. 


DOHA    THORNE.  (59 

"  Oh,  Ronald!"  she  said,  *'  for  your  sake  1  wish  1  was 
like  her.  Shall  you  ever  tire  of  mo,  or  wish  you  had  not 
married  me?" 

!  i  >nald  soothed  and  comforted  his  wife,  and  did  not  return 
to  his  studio  that  day,  but  sat  talking  to  her,  telling  her 
how  noble  and  good  Valentine  Charteris  was. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

IT  is  very  seldom  that  a  man  of  good  disposition  does 
wrong  willfully.  Konald  Earlo  would  have  felt  indignant 
if  nay  one  had  accused  him  of  dishonor  or  even  neglect. 
He  thought  Dora  enjoyed  herself  more  at  home  than  inso- 
,  consequently  he  left  her  there.  Habits  soon  grow. 
The  time  came  when  he  thought  it  was  the  wiser  course, 
lie  felt  more  at  ease  without  her.  If  Dora  by  chance  ac- 
companied him,  he  watched  her  anxiously,  fearful  lest 
others  should  discover  and  comment  upon  the  little  de- 

•ies  she  felt  so  acutely. 

The  visit  to  Lady  Chartoris  was  duly  paid— a  day  that 

Konald  enjoyed,  and  Doia  thought  would  never  end.     She 

i   not  feel  at  home  with  these  fine  ladies,  although 

1         Cluirtcris  was  kind  to  her  and  Valentine  laid  herself 

out  to  please;  not  even  when  Valentine,  pitying  her  shy, 

'  manner  and  evident  constraint,  took  her  out  into  the 

garden  and  tried  hard  to  win  her  confidence.    Dora's  heart 

to  close  against  the  beautiful,  brilliant  lady  who 

knew  her  husband  and  all  his  friends  so  well.     A  fierce, 

hot  breath  of  jealousy  stirred  the  simple  nature.     Konald 

talked  to  Mi.-j$  Charterisof  things  all  unknown  to  her;  they 

seemed  to  h;ivo  the  same  thoughts  and  feelings,  while  she 

;he  charmed  circle,  and  could  never  enter  it. 

he  growing  admiration  on  Ronald's  face  when 

:itine  played  and  sung,  and  her  restless  heart  grew 

•y  and  taint.    She  had  never  felt  jealous  before.    When 

1  Rosali  talked  and  laughed  with  her  husband, 

; ::g  him  sometimes  as  a  captive  and  again  as  a  victor, 

!>>r;i  never  cared;  but  every  smile  on  this  woman's  fair 

nairn-il  her — she  hardly  knew  why. 
\Vlu-n  Miss  Charteris.  usider  pretense  of  showing  her  fa- 
vorite flower,  took  Dora  away  from  the  others,  and  cou- 
: it Ifil   to  ht-r  as  she  had  never  done  to  any  other, 


70  DORA    THORNE. 

actually  caiessing  the  anxious  little  face  and  herself  offer- 
ing  to  be  Mrs.  Earle's  true  friend,  Dora's  heart  closed 
against  her.  She  only  replied  by  faint- monosyllables,  and 
never  raised  her  dark  eyes  to  the  face  turned  so  kindly 
upon  her. 

When  Ronald  had  taken  his  young  wife  away,  Lady  Char- 
teris  sat  with  her  daughter  in  an  unbroken  silence. 

"  Poor  boy!"  said  the  other  latly  at  length,  "  and  poor 
Dora!  This  is  one  more  added  to  the  list  of  unhappy  mar- 
riages. How  will  it  end:"' 

As  she  watched  the  sun  set  in  the  golden  west,  Valentine 
asked  herself  the  same  question:  "  How  will  it  end?" 

If  any  one  had  told  Dora  she  was  jealous,  she  would  have 
denied  it  indignantly,  although  Valentine  was  seldom  out 
of  her  mind. 

From  pure  kindness  Lady  Charteris  wished  Ronald  to 
paint  her  daughter's  portrait;  it  was  to  be  a  large  picture 
they  could  take  back  to  Greenoke.  He  was  pleased  with 
the  commission,  and  began  to  work  at  it  eagerly.  Lady 
Charteris  came  with  Valontine,  and  remained  with  her 
during  the  long  sittings,  doing  everything  in  her  power  to 
please  and  win  the  artist's  timid  wife. 

The  fair  face,  in  its  calm,  Grecian  beauty,  grew  upon  the 
canvas.  Many  a  long  hour,  when  Ronald  was  absent, 
Dora  lingered  over  it.  The  portrait  had  a  strange  fascina- 
tion for  her.  She  dwelt  upon  every  feature  until,  if  the  lips 
had  opened  and  smiled  a  mocking  smile  at  her,  she  would 
not  have  felt  greatly  surprised.  It  was  less  a  picture  to 
her  than  a  living,  breathing  reality.  She  would  watch 
Ronald  as  he  worked  at  it,  eager  and  enthusiastic;  theu, 
looking  up  and  finding  her  dark  eyes  riveted  upon  him 
with  so  strange  an  expression,  he  would  call  her  to  see  what 
progress  he  had  made;  and,  never  dreaming  of  the  grow- 
ing jealousy  in  Dora's  heart,  speak  with  an  artist's  deJight 
of  the  peerless  features. 

Without  any  great  or  sudden  change,  day  by  day  Dora 
g'ew  more  silent  and  reserved.  She  was  learning  to  hide 
her  thoughts,  to  keep  her  little  troubles  in  her  own  heart 
and  ponder  them.  The  time  was  past  when  she  would 
throw  herself  into  Ronald's  arms  and  weep, out  her  sorrows 
there. 

Ronald  did  not  notice  the  change.  Home  seemed  very 
dulL  It  was  a  great  pleasure  to  leave  the  solitary  little 


DORA    THORNE.  71 

villa  ana  sit  in  the  brilliant  salon  of  Lady  Charteris's  well- 
apj>  >iuteJ  house.  It  was  pleasant  to  exchange  dull  mono- 
tony for  sparkling  conversation  and  gay  society. 

Valentine  had  many  admirers.  Every  one  knew  the 
Prince  di  Borgezi  would  gladly  have  laid  his  fortune  and 
title  at  her  feet;  but  she  cared  for  neither.  Ronald  often 
watched  her  as  noble  and  learned  men  offered  their  hom- 
age to  her.  She  smiled  brightly,  spoke  well  and  gracefully; 
but  he  never  saw  in  her  face  the  look  he  once  remembered 
there.  Lady  Charteris  deplored  her  daughter's  obstinacy. 
She  took  Ronald  into  her  confidence,  and  confided  to  him 
her  annoyance  when  one  suitor  after  another  was  dismissed. 
Ronald  was  not  particularly  vain.  Liko  most  men,  he 
.bad  a  pleasing  consciousness  of  his  own  worth;  but  he 
i-ould  not  help  remembering  his  mother's  assurance  that 
Valentine  cared  for  him.  Could  it  have  been  true?  Was 
there  ever  a  time  when  that  beautiful  girl,  so  indifferent  to 
all  homage,  cared  for  him?  Could  there  have  been  a  time 
when  the  prize  for  which  others  sighed  in  vain  was  within 
his  grasp  and  he  slighted  itr 

'lid  not  dwell  upon  these  thoughts,  but  they  would 
into  his  mind,  it  was  seldom  that  a  day  passed  with- 
out his  calling  at  the  pretty  house  where  Lady  Charteris 
always  welcomed  him  kindly.  She  was  sorry  for  him.  He 
was  never  de  trop  with  her.  Occasionally,  too,  she  drove 
out  to  see  his  wife;  but  the  visits  were  rather  of  duty  than 

Of  pica?:: 

Then  Dora's  health  failed.     She  grew  weak  and  languid 
— irritable  at  times — as   unlike   the  smiling,  blushing  &irl 
}        .il  had  met  at  Earlescourt  gardens  as  it  was  possible 
r  t<>  be.     He  wrote  to  tell  hu  mother  that  at  length 
was  hope  of  an  heir  to  their  ancient  house.     II< 
very  kind  and  patient  to  his  ailing,  delicate  wife,  giving  up 
i         s  and  soirees  to  sit  with  her,  but  never  able  to  ; 
whv  Dora's  dark  eyes  looked  so  strangely  upon  him. 

, y  Cbarteris  had  planned  an  excursion  to  some  pict- 
:        ,uo  ruin  that  had  pleased  her  daughter,  who  w. 
•  ;ch  of  it.     Ronald  was  asked  to  join  (hem, 

anil  he  had  been  looking  forward  for  many  days  to  .1 
,         uit  hours  away  from  all  care  and  anxiety — out  in  the 
•if ul  country  with  Valentine.     But  when  the  morning 
:-a  looked    p.iK-  and   ill.     She  did   not  ask  him  to 
i  her,  bi.  I  in  her  face- 


72  DORA    THORNE. 

"  I  will  not  go,  Dora/3  said  her  husband;  "  I  will  nob 
leave  you.  1  shall  send  a  note  of  excuse  to  Lady  Charteris, 
and  take  care  of  you  all  day." 

"  Is  Miss  Charteris  going?"  she  asked,  quietly. 

"  Yes,  and  several  others,"  he  replied. 

"  Then  never  mind  me,"  said  Dora;  "  do  not  give  up  a 
day's  pleasure  for  me." 

Ronald  might  have  guessed  there  was  something  wrong 
from  the  tone  of  her  voice,  but  Ronald  was  not  of  a  sus- 
picious nature. 

"  Now,  Dora,"  he  said,  gently,  "  you  know  I  would  give 
up  every  pleasure  in  the  world  for  you." 

He  bent  over  her,  and  kissed  her  pale  little  face.  Time 
had  been  when  the  simple  heart  would  have  thrilled  with 
happiness  at  his  words;  but  Dora  grew  cold  and  hard. 

"  It  used  to  be  always  so,"  she  thought,  "  before  she 
came  with  her  beauty  and  took  him  from  me." 

How  much  misery  would  have  been  averted  had  she  told 
Ronald  of  her  jealous  thoughts  and  fears!  He  never  sus- 
pected them.  When  he  returned  home,  looking  bright 
and  happy,  she  would  ask  him,  "  Have  you  seen  Miss 
Charteris  to-day?"  and  he,  glad  of  her  interest  in  his 
friends,  would  reply  that  he  had  been  to  her  mother's 
house,  and  tell  her  of  music  he  had  heard  or  people  he  had 
met,  or  of  Valentine's  messages  to  her.  So  Dora  fed  the 
dark,  bitter  jealousy  that  had  crept  into  her  heart. 

It  was  a  proud  but  anxious  day  for  Ronald  when  he 
wrote  to  tell  his  mother  that  he  was  now  the  father  of  lit- 
tle twin  daughters,  two  pretty,  fair  babes,  in  place  of  the 
long  looked-for  heir  of  Earlescourt. 

Lady  Charteris  was  very  kind  to  the  lonely  young  moth- 
er—so kind  that,  had  she  borne  any  other  name,  Dora 
must  have  loved  her.  A  glimpse  of  the  old  happiness 
came  back,  for  Ronald  was  proud  and  pleased  with  the  lit- 
tle twin  sisters. 

One  bright  morning,  when  Dora  had  been  taken  down 
into  the  pretty  room  where  the  infants  lay  sleeping,  Lady 
Charteris  and  her  daughter  came  in.  Ronald  joined  them, 
and  there  was  a  long  discussion  as  to  the  names. 

"  You  must  have  an  eye  to  the  future,"  said  Valentine, 
smiling.  "  These  little  ladies  will  be  very  grand  person- 
ages some  day.  It  would  be  a  nice  compliment  to  Lady 
Earle  if  you  called  one  Helena." 


JORA    THORPE.  73 

"  I  have  made  my  choice,"  said  Dora,  In  a  clear,  ring- 
ing voice.  "  1  shall  call  this  little  one  with  the  fair  hair 
Lillian,  the  other  Beatrice." 

A  faint  flush  rose  to  her  face  as  she  spoke.  She  would 
allow  of  no  interference  here.  This  smiling  beauty  should 
not  give  names  to  her  children. 

"  1  admire  your  choice,"  said  Lady  Charteris;  "  Beatrice 
and  Lillian  are  very  pretty  names." 

When  Valentino  bent  over  the  cradle  and  kissed  the 
children  before  taking  leave,  Dora  said;  "I  have  had  rny 
own  way,  you  see,  Miss  Charteris,  with  my  little  ones.  Mr. 
Barle  did  not  oppose  me. " 

Valentine  thought  the  words  harsh  and  strange;  she  had 
no  clew  to  their  meaning.  She  could  not  have  imagined 
Dora  jealous  of  her.  She  made  some  laughing  reply,  and 
passed  on.  Dora  was  not  lonely  now,  the  care  of  the  little 
ones  occupying  her  whole  time;  but,  far  from  their  bind- 
ing Ronald  to  his  home,  he  became  more  estranged  from  it 
than  ever. 

The  pretty,  picturesque  villa  was  very  small;  there-was 
no  room  available  for  a  nursery.  Wherever  Dora  sat, 
there  must  the  little  ones  be;  and  although  they  were  \c-ry 
charming  to  the  mother  and  the  nurse,  the  continued  cms 
and  noise  irritated  Ronald  greatly.  Then  ho  grew  vexed; 
Dora  cried,  and  said  he  did  not  love  them,  and  so  the  bar- 
rier k'rew  day  by  day  between  those  who  should  have  been 
all  in  all  to  each  other. 

The  children  grew.  Little  Beatrice  gave  promise  of 
great  beauty.  She  had  the  Earlo  face,  Ronald  said.  Lil- 
lian was  a  fair,  sweet  babe,  too  gentle,  her  mother  thought, 
to  live.  Neither  of  them  resembled  her,  and  at  times  Dora 
wished  it  had  been  otherwise. 

Perhaps  in  all  Ronald  Earle's  troubled  life  he  never  spent 
a  more  unsettled  or  wu  till- il  yi-ur  than  this.  "It  is  im- 
pos^ible  to  paint,"  he  said  to  himself,  *'  when  disturbed  by 
crving  babies."  So  the  greater  part  of  his  time  was  spent 
away  from  home.  Some  hours  of  every  day  were  passed 
with  Valentine;  he  never  stopped  to  ask  himself  what  ini- 
^nilse  k'il  him  to  seek  her  society;  the  calm  repose  of  her 
lair  presence  contrasted  so  pleasantly  with  the  petty  troubles 
and  small  miseries  of  home.  When  Miss  Charteris  rode 
out  he  accompanied  her;  he  liked  to  meet  her  at  }> .. 


/4  DOHA    THOENE, 

and  balls.     He  would  have  thought  a  day  sad  and  dark 
wherein  he  did  not  see  her. 

When  the  little  ones  reached  their  first  birthday,  Valen- 
tine, with  her  usual  kind  thought,  purchased  a  grand  as- 
sortment of  toys,  and  drove  over  quite  unexpectedly  to  the 
villa.  It  was  not  a  vjery  cheerful  scene  which  met  her  gaze. 

Ronald  was  busily  engaged  in  writing.  Dora,  flushed 
and  worn,  was  vainly  trying  to  stop  the  cries  of  one  child, 
while  the  other  pulled  at  her  dress.  The  anxious,  dreary 
face  struck  Valentine  with  pain.  She  laid  the  parcel  of 
toys  down,  and  shook  hands  with  Ronald,  who  looked  some- 
what ashamed  of  the  aspect  of  affairs.  Then,  turning  to 
Dora,  she  took  the  child  from  her  arms,  and  little  Beatrice, 
looking  at  her  with  wondering  eyes,  forgot  to  cry. 

"  You  are  not  strong  enough,  Dora,  to  nurse  this  heavy 
child,"  said  Miss  Charteris.  "  Why  do  you  not  find  some 
one  to  help  you?" 

"  We  can  not  afford  it,"  said  Ronald,  gloomily. 

"  We  spend  too  much  in  gloves  and  horses/'  added 
Dora,  bitterly;  but  no  sooner  were  the  words  spoken  than 
she  would  have  given  the  world  to  recall  them. 

Ronald  made  no  reply,  and  Valentine,  anxious  to  avert 
the  storm  she  had  unwittingly  raised,  drew  attention  to  the 
toys. 

When  Valentine  left  them,  Dora  and  Ronald  had  their 
first  quarrel — long  and  bitter.  He  could  ill  brook  the  insult 
her  words  implied — spoken  before  Valentine,  too! — and 
she  for  the  first  time  showed  him  how  an  undisciplined, 
untrained  nature  can  throw  off  the  restraint  of  good  man- 
ners and  good  breeding.  It  was  a  quarrel  never  to  be  for- 
gotten, when  Ronald  in  the  height  of  his  rage  wished  that 
he  had  never  seen  Dora,  and  she  re-echoed  the  wish. 
When  such  a  quarrel  takes  place  between  man  and  wife, 
the  bloom  and  freshness  are  gone  from  love.  They  may 
be  reconciled,  but  they  will  never  again  be  to  each  other 
what  they  once  were.  A  strong  barrier  is  broken  down, 
and  nothing  can  be  put  in  its  place. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  angry,  passionate  words  spoken  by  Ronald — almost 
the  first  he  had  ever  uttered — soon  faded  from  his  mind, 
but  they  ra'i,:!.;i  like  poisoned  arrows  in  Dora's  heart. 


DORA    THORNE.  76 

She  believed  them.  Before  evening  her  husband  repented 
of  his  anger,  and  called  himself  a  coward  for  having  scolded 
Dora.  He  went  up  to  her  and  raised  her  face  to  his. 

"  Little  wife,"  he  said,  **  we  have  both  been  wrong.  1 
am  very  sorry — let  us  make  friends/' 

There  was  just  a  suspicion  of  sullenness  in  Dora's  nature, 
and  it  showed  itself  in  full  force  now. 

"  It  is  no  matter,"  she  replied,  cqolly;  "  I  knew  long 
ago  that  you  were  tired  of  me." 

Ronald  would  not  answer,  lest  they  should  quarrel  again, 
but  he  thought  to  himself  that  perhaps  she  was  not  far 
wrong. 

From  that  day  the  breach  between  them  widened.  In 
after  years  Dora  saw  how  much  she  was  to  blame.  She  un- 
derstood then  how  distasteful  her  quiet,  sullen  reserve 
must  have  been  to  a  high-bred,  fastidious  man  like  Ron- 
ald. She  did  not  see  it  then,  but  nursed  in  her  heart 
imaginary  wrongs  and  injuries;  and,  above  all,  she  yielded 
to  a  wild,  fierce  jealousy  of  Valentine  Chartoris. 

For  some  weeks  Miss  Charteris  saw  the  cloud  deepening 
on  Ronald's  face.  He  grew  silent,  and  lost  the  How  of 
spirit  that  had  once  seemed  never  to  fail;  and  during  the 
few  weeks  that  followed,  a  strong  resolution  grew  in  her 
mind.  She  was  his  true  friend,  and  she  would  try  to  re- 
store ncace  and  harmony  between  him  and  his  wife.  Site 
waited  for  some  days,  but  at  her  mother's  house  it  U;H 
impossible  to  see  him  alone.  Yet  she  honestly  believed 
that,  if  she  could  talk  to  him,  remind  him  of  his  first  love 
for  Dora,  of  her  simplicity  and  many  virtues,  she  might 
restore  peace  and  harmony  to  her  old  friend's  home.  She 
thought  Ronald  to  blame.  He.  hail  voluntarily  taken 
active  duties  upon  himself,  and  to  her  clearly,  rightly 
judging  mind,  there  was  no  earthly  reason  why  he  should 
not  fulfill  them.  He  would  not  feel  hurt  at  her  speaking, 
she  felt  sure,  fur  he  had  voluntarily  Bought  her  aid  years 
ago.  So  Valentine  waited  day  after  day,  hoping  to  find  a 
chance  for  those  few  words  she  thought  would  do  so  mm  h 
good;  but,  as  no  opportunity  came,  she  resolved  to  make 
one.  Taking  her  little  jeweled  pencil,  she  wrote  the  fol- 
lowing iiiii--  that  were  in  after-time  a  death-warrant: 

"  DKAI  K  !.K, — I  wish  to  speak  to  you  particu- 

larly v.     1  shall  be  in  our  grounds  to-morrow 


?f>  DOHA    THORNE. 

morning  about  ten;  let  me  see  you  there  before  yon  enter 
the  house.  Your  sincere  friend, 

"VALENTINE  CHARTERIS." 

All  the  world  might  have  read  the  note — there  was  noth- 
ing wrong  in  it — good  intentions  and  a  kindly  heart  dic- 
tated it,  but  it  worked  fatal  mischief.  When  Ronald  was 
leaving  her  mother's  house,  Miss  Charteris  openly  placed 
the  letter  in  his  hands. 

"  That  is  the  first  note  1  have  ever  written  to  yon,"  she 
said,  with  a  smile.  "  You  must  not  refuse  the  request  it 
contains." 

"  I  will  send  him  home  happy  to-morrow,"  she  thought, 
"  he  is  easily  influenced  for  good.  He  must  make  up  the 
misunderstanding  with  his  pretty  little  wife— neither  of 
them  look  happy." 

Ronald  did  not  open  the  letter  until  he  reached  home. 
Then  he  read  it  with  a  half-consciousness  of.  what  Valen- 
tine wanted  him  for. 

"  She  is  a  noble  woman,"  he  thought.  "  Her  words 
made  me  brave  before — they  will  do  me  good  again." 

He  left  the  folded  paper  upon  the  table  in  his  studio;  and 
jealous  little  Dora,  going  in  search  of  some  work  she  had 
left,  found  it  there.  She  read  it  word  by  word,  the  color 
dying  slowly  out  of  her  face  as  she  did  so,  and  a  bitter, 
deadly  jealousy  piercing  her  heart  like  a  two-edged  sword. 
It  confirmed  her  worst  fears,  her  darkest  doubts.  How 
dared  this  brilliant,  beautiful  woman  lure  Ronald  from  her? 
Uow  dared  she  rob  her  of  his  love? 

,  Ronald  looked  aghast  at  his  wife's  face  as  she  re-entered 
the  sitting-room.  He  had  been  playing  with  the  children, 
and  had  forgotten  for  the  time  both  Valentine  and  her 
note.  He  cried  out  in  alarm  as  she  turned  her  white,  wild 
face  to  him  in  dumb,  silent  despair. 

'  What  is  the  matter,  Dora?"  he  cried.     "  Are  you  ill 
or  frightened?    You  look  like  a  ghost." 

She  made  no  reply,  and  her  husband,  thinking  she  had 
relapsed  into  one  of  her  little  fits  of  temper,  sighed  heavily 
a; id  bade  her  good-night. 

Poor,  foolish,  jealous  heart — she  never  lay  down  to  rest! 

She  had  quite  resolved  she  would  go  and  meet  the  b.'iS' 
baud  who  was  tired  of  her  and  the  woman  who  lured  hid* 
astray.  She  would  listen  to  all  they  had  to  say,  and  thei. 


DOHA   THOENE.  57 

confront  them.  No  thought  of  the  dishonor  of  such  a 
proceeding  struck  her.  Poor  Dora  was  not  gifted  with 
great  refinement  of  feeling — she  looked  upon  the  step  she 
contemplated  rather  as  a  triumph  over  an  enemy  than  a 
degradation  to  herself.  She  Knew  the  place  in  the 
grounds  where  they  should  be  sure  to  meet.  Miss  Charteria 
called  it  her  bower;  it  was  a  thick  cluster  of  trees  under  the 
shade  of  which  stood  a  pretty,  rustic  seat;  and  Dora 
thought  that,  if  she  placed  herself  behind  the  trees,  she 
would  be  able  to  hear  all  unseen. 

Before  Ronald  partook  of  breakfast  Dora  had  quitted  the 
house  on  her  foolish  errand.  She  knew  the  way  to  the 
house  and  the  entrance  to  the  garden.  She  had  no  fear; 
even  were  she  discovered  there,  no  one  could  surmise  more 
than  that  she  was  resting  on  her  way  to  the  house.  She 
crouched  behind  the  trees  and  waited.  It  was  wrong, 
weak,  and  wicked;  but  there  was  something  so  pitiful  in 
the  white  face  full  of  anguish  that  one  would  hardly  know 
whether  to  pity  or  blame  her. 

The  sunshine  reached  her,  the  birds  were  singing  in  the 
trees,  the  flowers  were  all  blooming — she,  in  her  sorrow 
and  desolation,  heeded  nothing.  At  length  she  saw  them 
— Valentine  in  her  white  morning-dress,  her  beautiful  face 
full  of  deep,  earnest  emotion,  and  Ronald  by  her  side.  As 
she  surmised,  they  walked  straight  to  the  trees,  and  Val- 
entine signed  to  Ronald  to  take  a  seat  by  her  side.  Sweetly 
and  clearly  every  word  she  uttered  sounded  to  Ronald,  but 
they  fell  like  drops  of  molten  lead  on  the  jealous  heart  of 
Ronald's  wife. 

"  You  must  try,"  Valentine  was  saying;  "  I  used  to 
think  you  would  be  a  hero.  You  are  proving  yourself  a 
very  weak  and  erring  man." 

Dora  could  not  distinguish  Ronald's  words  so  plainly; 
he  said  something  about  life  and  its  mistakes. 

"  I  told  you  once,"  said  Valentine,  "  that  the  man  who 
could  endure  so  bravely  the  consequences  of  his  own  actions 
was  a  true  hero.  Grant  the  worst — that  yon  have  made  a 
mistake.  You  must  make  the  best  you  can  of  it,  and  you 
are  not  doing  that  now. " 

41  No,"  he  said,  gravely.  "  1  am  very  unhappy — moro 
so  than  you  can  imagine,  Valentine.  Life  seems  to  havp 
nil  its  charms  for  me.  I  had  such  great  hopes  once; 
but  t!i<  v  are  all  dead  now." 


78  DOHA    THORNE. 

"  You  are  too  young  to  say  that,"  she  replied;  "  a  little 
courage,  a  little  patience,  and  all  will  be  well.  If  it  com- 
forts you  to  know  that  my  warmest,  deepest  sympathy  is 
with  you — " 

Valentine  Charteris  never  finished  her  sentence;  a  pale, 
angry  face  and  dark,  gleaming  eyes  full  of  passion  sudden* 
ly  flashed  before  her. 

"  You  may  spare  your  pity,  Miss  Charteris/'  cried  a 
hoarse  voice.  "  Why  have  you  made  my  husband  dissat- 
isfied with  me?  Why  have  you  taken  his  love  from  me? 
Why  do  you  write  notes  asking  him  to  meet  you,  that  you 
may  both  speak  evil  and  wrong  of  his  low-born  wife?" 

"  Hush!"  said  Eonald,  sternly,  grasping  her  arm. 
**  Stop  these  wild  words,  Dora!  Are  yon  mad?" 

"No,  not  yet/'  she  cried;  "but  this  false  woman  will 
drive  me  so!" 

Then  Miss  Charteris  rose,  her  calm,  grand  face  unruffled, 
not  a  quiver  on  her  proud  lips. 

"  Stay,  Miss  Charteris,  one  moment,  I  pray  you,"  said 
Ronald,  "  while  my  wife  apologizes  for  her  folly." 

"  It  is  all  true,"  cried  Dora.  "  She  wrote  and  asked 
you  to  meet  her  here." 

"  Dora,"  said  her  husband,  gravely,  "  did  you  read  the 
letter  Miss  Charteris  wrote  to  me?" 

"  1  did,"  she  replied. 

"  And  you  deliberately  came  here  to  listen  to  what  she 
had  to  say  to  me?"  he  continued.  "  You  deliberately 
listened  to  what  you  were  never  intended  to  hear?" 

His  grave,  stern  dignity  calmed  her  angry  passion,  and 
she  looked  half-frightened  into  his  quiet  white  face. 

"  Answer  me!"  he  said.  "Have  you  crouched  behind 
those  trees  deliberately  and  purposely  to  listen?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said;  "  and  I  would  do  so  again  if  any  one 
tried  to  take  my  husband  from  me." 

"  Them  may  1  be  forgiven  for  the  dishonor  1  have 
brought  to  my  name  and  race!"  said  Ronald.  "  May  I  be 
forgiven  for  thinking  such  a  woman  fit  to  be  my  wife! 
Hear  me,"  he  continued,  and  the  passion  in  his  voice 
changed  to  contempt:  "  Miss  Charteris  is  your  friend;  she 
asked  me  to  meet  her  here  that  she  might  plead  your  cause, 
Dora — that  she  might  advise  me  to  remain  moro  at  home 
with  you,  to  «™  IPSS  into  society,  to  look  more  at  the  bright 


DOHA    THORITE.  79 

side  of  our  married  life,  and  be  a  better  husband  than  I 
have  been  lately;  it  was  for  that  she  summoned  me  here." 

"  I — I  do  not  believe  it,"  sobbed  his  wife. 

"  That  is  at  your  option,"  he  replied,  coolly.  "Miss 
Charteris,  1  should  kneel  to  ask  yotir  pardon  for  the  in- 
sults yon  have  received.  If  a  man  had  uttered  them  I 
would  avenge  them.  The  woman  who  spoke  them  bears 
my  name.  I  entreat  your  pardon. "  ' 

"It  is  granted,"  she  replied;  '*  your  wife  must  have 
been  mad,  or  she  would  have  known  I  was  her  friend.  I 
deeply  regret  that  my  good  intentions  have  resulted  so  iin- 
happily.  Forget  my  annoyance,  Mr.  Earle,  and  forgive 
Dora;  she  could  not  have  known  what  she  was  saying." 

"  I  forgive  her,"  said  lionald;  "  but  I  never  wish  to 
look  upon  her  face  again.  I  see  nothing  but  dishonor 
there.  My  love  died  a  violent  death  ten  minutes  since. 
The  woman  so  dead  to  all  delicacy,  all  honor  as  to  listen 
and  suspect  will  never  more  be  wife  of  mine." 

"  Be  pitiful,"  said  Valentine,  for  Dora  was  weeping  bit- 
terly now;  all  her  fire  and  passion,  all  her  angry  jealousy, 
had  faded  before  his  wrath. 

"  1  am  pitiful,"  he  replied.  "  Heaven  knows  1  pity 
her.  I  pity  myself.  We  Earles  love  honorable  women 
when  we  love  at  all.  I  will  escort  you  to  your  house,  M!.-.s 
Char teris,  and  then  Mrs.  Earle  and  mysolf  will  make  our 
arrangements." 

In  her  sweet,  womanly  pity,  Valentine  bent  down  and 
kissed  the  despairing  face. 

"  Try  to  believe  that  you  are  wrong  and  mistaken,  Mrs. 
Earle,"  she  said,  gently.  "  I  had  no  thought  save  to  be 
your  friend." 

They  spoke  no  word  as  they  passed  through  the  pretty 
grounds.  Valentine  was  full  of  pity  for  her  companion, 
and  of  regret  for  her  own  share  in  that  fatal  morning's 
work. 

When  Ronald  reached  the  cluster  of  trees  again  Dora 
was  not  there.  Just  at  that  moment  he  cared  but  little 
whi liter  she  had  gone.  His  vexation  and  sorrow  seemed 
almost  greater  than  he  could  bear. 


80  DOBA 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  passion  and  despair  of  that  undisciplined  heart 
something  painful  to  see.  Reason,  sense,  and  honor,  for 
a  time  were  all  dead.  If  Dora  could  have  stamped  out  the 
calm  beauty  of  Valentine's  magnificent  face,  she  would 
have  done  so.  Ronald's  anger,  his  bitter  contempt,  stung 
her,  until  her  whole  heart  and  soul  were  in  angry  revolt, 
until  bitter  thoughts  raged  like  a  wild  tempest  within  her. 
She  could  not  see  much  harm  in  what  she  had  done;  she 
did  not  quite  see  why  reading  her  own  husband's  letter,  or 
listening  to  a  private  conversation  of  his  was  a  breach  of 
honor.  She  thought  but  little  at  the  time  of  what  she  had 
done;  her  heart  was  full  of  anger  against  Ronald  and  Val- 
entine. She  clasped  her  hands  angrily  after  Mrs.  Char- 
teris  had  kissed  her,  crying  out  that  she  was  false,  and  had 
lured  Ronald  from  her.  Any  one  passing  her  on  the 
high-road  would  have  thought  her  mad,  seeing  the  white 
face,  the  dark  gleaming  eyes,  the  rigid  lips  only  opening 
for  moans  and  cries  that  marred  the  sweet  silence.  He 
should  keep  'his  word;  never — come  what  might — never 
should  he  look  upon  her  fair  face  again — the  face  he  had 
caressed  so  often  and  thought  so  fair.  She  would  go  away 
— he  was  quite  tired  of  her,  and  of  her  children,  too.  'They 
would  tease  him  and  intrude  upon  him  no  more.  Let  him 
go  to  the  fair,  false  woman  who  had  pretended  to  pity  her. 

The  little  nurse-maid,  a  simple  peasant  girl,  looked  on 
in  mute  amazement  when  her  mistress  entered  the  room 
where  the  children  were. 

"  Maria,"  she  said,  "  I  am  going  home,  over  the  seas  to 
England.  Will  you  come  with  me?" 

The  only  thing  poor  Dora  had  learned  during  those 
quiet  years  was  a  moderate  share  of  Italian.  The  young 
nurse  looked  up  in  wonder  at  the  hard  voice,  usually  sofc 
as  the  cooing  of  a  ring-dove. 

"  I  will  go,"  she  replied,  "  if  the  signora  will  take  me. 
I  leave  none  behind  that  I  love." 

With  trembling,  passionate  hands  and  white,  stern  face, 
Dora  packed  her  trunks  and  boxes — the  children's  lilLle 
wardrobe  and  her  own,  throwing  far  from  her  every  pres- 
ent, either  of  dress  or  toys,  that  Valentine  had  brought. 


DORA    mORNE.  SI 

She  never  delayed  to  look  round  and  think  of  the  happy 
Inurs  spent  in  those  pretty  rooms.  She  never  thought  of 
the  young  lover  who  had  given  up  all  the  world  for  her 
All  she  remembered  was  the  wrathful  husband  who  never 
wished  to  see  her  more — who,  in  presence  of  another,  had 
bitterly  regretted  having  made  her  his  wife.  She  could 
ir>t  weep— the  burning  brain  and  jealous,  angry  heart 
would  have  been  better  for  that,  but  the  dark  eyes  were 
bright  and  full  of  strange,  angry  light.  Tho  little  ones, 
.oaking  upon  her,  wept  for  fear.  With  eager,  passionate 
love  she  caught  them  in  her  arm?,  crying  the  while  that 
they  should  never  remain  to  be  despised  as  she  was. 

In  the  white-faced,  angry  woman,  roused  to  the  highest 
pitch  of  passion,  there  was  no  trace  of  pretty,  blushing 
l)ora.  Rapidly  were  the  boxes  packed,  corded,  and  ad- 
-••d.  Once  during  that  brief  time  Maria  asked, 
"  Where  are  you  going,  S'gnora?"  And  the  hard  voice 
answered,  '*  To  my  father's — my  own  home  in  England." 

When   everything   was   ready,  the   wondering   children 

.•d,  and  the  little  maid  waiting,  Dora  sat  down  at  her 

husband's  desk  and  wrote  the  following  lines.     No  tears 

fell  upon  them;  her  hand  did  not  tremble,  the  words  were 

clear  and  firmly  written. 

"  1  have  not  waited  for  yon  to  send  me  away.     Your 

eyes  shall  not  be  pained  again  by  resting  on  the  face  where 

you  read  dishonor.     I  saw  months  ago  that  you  were  tired 

of  me.     1  am  going  to  my  father's  house,  and  my  children 

!         I  t;ike  with  me — you  care  no  more  for  them  than  for 

mine — not  yours.     1  leave  you  with  all  you. 

love  in  the  world.     J   take  all  I  love  with  me.     If   you 

prayed  for  long  years,  1  would  never  return  to  you  nor 

to  you  again." 

.She  folded  the  note  and  addressed  it  to  her  husband. 
Sh'j  left  no  kiss  warm  from  her  lips  upon  it.  As  slid 
i  1  forever  from  the  little  villa,  she  never  turned  for 
one  last  look  at  its  vine-clad  walls. 

The  gaunt,   silent  Italian  servant  who  had  lived  with 

.  since  the  first  day  she  reaclif.i    Fl  »ivii<-«'  came  t<>  her 

in  wonder  and  alarm,  ban  ly  IM  ognizing  her  pretty,  gentle 

•ss  in  th  iman  who  looked  liko 

on  •  bronchi  t  >  l>.iy.     To  lr  r  Dora  spoke  of  r;  it 

•  her  husband  as  soon  as  h-- 


THOBNB. 

Not  one  word  did  she  utter  in  reply  to  the  woman's  quas« 
tion.  She  hurried  with  the  keen  desperation  of  despair, 
lest  Ronald  should  return  and  find  her  still  there. 

Soon  after  noon,  and  while  Ronald  lingered  with  some 
friends  upon  the  steps  of  tho  Hotel  d'Jtalie,  his  wife 
reached  the  busy  railway  station  at  Florence.  She  had 
money  enough  to  take  her  home,  but  none  to  spare.  She 
knew  no  rest;  every  moment  seemed  like  an  age  to  her, 
until  the  train  was  in  motion,  and  fair,  sunny  Florence  left 
far  behind. 

Without  the  stimulus  of  anger  Dora  would  have  shrunk 
in  terror  from  the  thought  of  a  long  journey  alone — she 
who  had  never  been  without  the  escort  of  a  kind  and  attent- 
ive husband.  But  no  prospect  daunted  her  now — the  wide 
seas,  the  dangers  of  rail  and  road  had  no  terror  for  her. 
She  was  flying  in  hot  haste  and  anger  from  one  who  had 
said  before  her  rival  that  he  never  wished  to  see  her  face 
again. 


The  sun  shining  so  brightly  on  the  waters  of  the  Arno 
lingered  almost  lovingly  on  the  fair,  quiet  English  laud- 
scape.  Far  down  in  the  fertile  and  beautiful  county  of 
Kent,  where  the  broad  channel  washes  the  shore,  stands 
the  pretty,  almost  unknown  village  of  Knutsford. 

The  world  is  full  of  beauty;  every  country  has  its  share 
^Switzerland  its  snow-clad  mountains,  Germany  its  dark 
woods  and  broad  streams,  France  its  sunny  plains,  Italy 
its  "  thousand  charms  of  Nature  and  Art;"  but  for  quiet, 
tranquil  loveliness,  for  calm,  fair  beauty,  looking  always 
fresh  from  the  Mighty  Hand  that  created  it,  there  is  noth- 
ing like  English  scenery. 

The  white  cliffs  of  Knutsford,  like  "  grand  giants/'  ran 
along  the  shore;  there  was  a  broad  stretch  of  yellow  sand, 
hidden  when  the  tide f'  was  in,  shining  and  firm  when  it 
ebbed.  The  top  of  the  cliff  wds  like  a  carpet  of  thick 
green  grass  and  springing  heather.  Far  away,  in  the  blue 
distance,  one  could  see,  of  a  bright,  sunny  day,  the  outline 
of  the  French  coast.  The  waves  rolled  in,  and  broke  upon 
the  yellow  sands;  the  sea-birds  flew  by  with  busy  wings, 
white  sails  gleamed  in  the  sunshine.  Occasionally  a  large 
steamer  passed;  there  was  no  sound  save  the  rich,  never- 
changing  music  of  Nature,  the  rushh  of  wind  and  waves. 


DORA    THORNE.  83 

the  grand,  solemn  anthem  that  the  sea  never  tires  of  sing* 

ing- 
Far  down  the  cliff  ran  the  zigzag  path  that  led  to  the 
village;  there  was  no  sign  of  the  sea  on  the  other  side  of 
the  white  rocks.  There  the  green  fields  and  pretty  hop- 
gardens stretched  out  far  and  wide,  and  the  Farthmglow 
\Voods  formed  a  belt  around  them.  In  the  midst  of  a 

freen,  fertile  valley  stood  the  lovely  village  of  Knutsford. 
t  had  no  regular  street;  a  pretty  church,  clad  with  gray 
ivy,  stood  on  a  small  hill;  there  were  a  few  cottages,  a  few 
farm-houses,  a  few  little  villas,  one  grand  mansion,  three 
or  four  shops,  and  quiet  homsteads  with  thatched  roofs  and 
eaves  of  straw. 

The  prettiest  and  most  compact  little  farm  in  the  vil- 
lage was  the  one  where  Stephen  Thorne  and  his  wife  dwelt. 
It  was  called  the  Elms,  a  long  avenue  of  elms  leading  to 
the  little  house  and  skirting  the  broad  green  meadows.  It 
was  at  a  short  distance  from  the  village,  so  quiet,  so  trail-, 
quil,  that,  living  there,  one  seemed  out  of  the  world. 

Stephen  Thorne  and  his  wife  were  not  rich.  In  spite  of 
Lady  Earle's  bounty,  it  was  hard  for  them  at  times  to 
make  both  end*  meet.  Crops,  even  in  that  fair  and  fertile 
county,  would  fail,  cattle  would  die,  rain  would  fall  when 
it  should  not,  and  the  sun  refuse  to  shine.  But  this  year 
everything  had  gone  on  well;  the  hay  stood  in  great  ricks 
in  the  farm-yard,  the  golden  corn  waved  in  the  fields  ripe 
and  ready  for  the  sickle,  the  cows  and  sheep  fed  tranquilly 
in  the  meadows,  and  all  things  had  prospered  with  Stephen 
Thorne.  One  thing  only  weighed  upon  his  heart — his  wife 
would  have  it  that  Dora  a  letters  grew  more  and  more  sad; 
she  declared  her  child  was  unhappy,  and  he  could  not  per- 
suade her  to  the  contrary. 

It  was  a  fair  August  evening.  Ah!  how  weak  and  feeble 
are  the  words.  Who  could  paint  the  golden  flush  of  sum- 
mer beauty  that  lay  over  the  meadows  and  corn-fields — 
tho  hod^e-rows  filled  with  wild  flowers,  the  long,  thick 
grass  studded  with  gay  blossoms,  the  calm,  sullen  silence 
only  broken  by  the  singing  of  the  birds,  the  lowing  of  cat- 
tle, the  rustling  of  green  leaves  in  the  sweet  soft  air? 

Stephen  Thorne  had  gone  with  his  guest  and  visitor, 
Kulph  Holt,  to  fetch  the  cattle  home.  In  Ralph's  honor, 
good,  motherly  Mrs.  Thorne  had  laid  out  a  bountiful  tea 
—golden  honey  that  seemed  iust  gathered  from  the  flowers, 


84  DORA    THORNE. 

ripe  fruits,  cream  from  the  dairy — everything  was  ready; 
yet  the  farmer  and  his  guest  seemed  long  in  coming.  She 
went  to  the  door  and  looked  across  the  meadows.  The 
quiet  summer  beauty  stole  like  a  spell  over  her. 

Suddenly,  down  in  the  meadows,  Mrs.  Thorne  caught 
sight  of  a  lady  leading  a  little  child  by  the  hand.  She  \vas 
followed  by  a  young  maid  carrying  another.  As  the  lady 
drew  nearer  Mrs.  Thorne  stood  transfixed  and  bewildered. 
Could  the  summer  sun  or  the  flickering  shade  be  mocking 
her?  Was  she  dreaming  or  awake?  Far  off  still,  through 
the  summer  haze,  she  saw  a  white,  wan  face;  dark  eyes, 
shadowed  and  veiled,  as  though  by  long  weeping;  lips,  once 
rosy  and  smiling,  rigid  and  firm.  She  saw  what  seemed 
to  her  the  sorrowful  ghost  of  the  pretty,  blooming  child 
that  had  left  her  long  ago.  She  tried  to  call  out,  but  her 
voice  failed  her.  She  tried  to  run  forward  and  meet  the 
figure  coming  slowly  through  the  meadows,  but  she  was 
powerless  to  move.  She  never  heard  the  footsteps  of  her 
husband  and  his  guest.  She  only  stirred  when  Stephen 
Thorne  placed  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  and  in  a  loud, 
cheery  voice,  asked  what  ailed  her. 

"  Look,''  she  said,  hoarsely,  ''look  down  the  meadow 
there  and  tell  me — if  that  is  Dora  or  Dora's  ghost?" 

She  drew  near  more  swiftly  now,  for  she  had  seen  the 
three  figures  at  the  door.  The  white  face  and  wild  eyes 
seemed  aflame  with  anxiety. 

"  Dora,  Dora!"  cried  IVtrs.  Thorne,  *'  is  it  really  you?" 

"  It  is,"  said  a  faint,  bitter  voice.  "  I  am  come  home, 
mother.  My  heart  is  broken  and  I  long  to  die. " 

They  crowded  around  her,  and  Ealph  Holt,  with  his 
strong  arms,  carried  the  fragile,  drooping  figure  into  the 
house.  They  laid  her  upon  the  little  couch,  and  drew  th* 
curling  rings  of  dark  hair  back  from  her  white  face.  Mra 
Thorne  wept  aloud,  crying  out  for  her  pretty  Dora,  hei 
poor,  unhappy  child.  The  two  men  .stood  watching  her 
\vith  grave,  sad  eyes.  Ralph  clinched  his  hand  as  he  gazed 
upon  her,  the  wreck  of  the  simple,  gentle  girl  he  had  loved 
so  dcarty. 

"  If  he  has  wronged  her,"  he  said  to  Stephen  Thorne, 
*'  if  he  has  broken  her  heart,  and  sent  her  home  to  die,  let 
him  beware!" 

"  1  knew  it  would  never  prosper/*  groaned  her  father 
"such  marriages  never  do." 


DORA    THORNE.  85 

When  Dora  opened  her  eyes,  and  saw  the  three  anxious 
faces  around  her,  for  a  moment  she  was  bewildered.  They 
knew  when  the  torture  of  memory  returned  to  her,  for  she 
clasped  her  hands  with  a  low  moan. 

'  Dora,"  said  her  mother,  "  what  has  happened?  Trust 
us,  dear  child — we  are  your  best  friends.  Where  is  your 
husband?  And  why  have  you  left  him?" 

"  Because  he  has  grown  tired  of  me,"  she  cried,  with 
passion  and  anger  flaming  again  in  her  white,  worn  face. 
"1  i -id  something  he  thought  wrong,  and  he  prayed  to 
Heaven  to  pardon  him  for  making  me  his  wife." 

"  What  did  you  do?"  asked  her  father,  anxiously. 

*'  Nothing  that  I  thought  wrong,"  she  replied.  "  Ask 
ni  '  m>  questions,  father,  I  would  rather  die  any  death  than 
r<  turn  to  him  or  see  him  again.  Yet  do  not  thiuk  evil  of 
him.  It  was  all  a  mistake.  1  could  not  think  his  thoughts 
or  live  his  life — we  were  quite  different,  and  very  unhappy. 
Jlc  never  wishes  to  see  me  again,  and  1  will  suffer  anything 
rather  than  see,  him." 

Tht>  fanner  «nd  his  wife  looked  at  each  other  in  silent 
dismay.  This  proud,  angry  woman  and  her  passionate 
words,  frightened  them.  Could  it  be  their  Dora,  who  had 
ever  been  sunshine  and  music  to  them? 

"  If  you  do  not  like  to  take  me  home,  father,"  she  said, 
in  a  hard  voice,  "  I  can  go  elsewhere;  nothing  can  surprise 
or  grieve  me  now." 

But  kindly  Mrs.  Thorue  had  drawn  the  tired  head  to 
her. 

"  Do  you  not  know,  child,"  she  said,  gently,  "  that  a 
icr's  love  never  fails?" 

IJalph  had  rained  the  little  one  in  his  arms,  anil  was  look- 
;  ;ili  wondering  admiration  at  the  proud,  beautiful  face 
of  the  little  Beatrice,  and  the  fair  loveliness  of  Lillian. 
The  i  iiihii.  n  looked  with  frank,  fearless  eyes  into  his  plain, 
1  'st  face. 

11  This  one  with  dark  hair  has  the  real  Earle  face,"  said 
Stephen  Thome,  proudly;  "  that  is  just  my  lord's  look — 
;        1  and  quiet.     And  tho  little  Lillian  is  something  like 
»,  when  she  was  quite  a  child." 

"Nerer  say  that!"  cried  the  young  mother.  "Let 
them  grow  lik'c  any  «>m-  else,  l,ut  never  like  me!" 

They  soothed  her  witli  ;:mtle,  loving  words.  Her  father 
said  she  should  share  his  home  with  her  children,  and  ho 


86  DORA    THOB1TB. 

would  never  give  her  up  again.  They  bade  her  watch  the 
little  cues,  who  had  forgotten  their  fears,  and  laughed  over 
the  ripe  fruit  and  golden  honey.  They  alse  drew  aside  the 
white  curtain,  and  let  her  tired  eyes  fall  upon  the  sweet 
summer  beauty  of  earth  and  sky.  Was  not  everything 
peaceful?  The  sun  sinking  in  the  west,  the  birds  singing 
their  evening  song,  the  flowers  closing  their  bright  eyes, 
the  wind  whispering  "  good-night "  to  the  shimmering, 
graceful  elms — all  was  peace,  and  the  hot,  angry  heart 
grew  calm  and  still.  Bitter  tears  rose  to  the  burning  eyes 
— tears  that  fell  like  rain,  and  seemed  to  take  away  the 
sharpest  sting  of  her  pain. 

With  wise  and  tender  thought  they  let  Dora  weep  undis- 
turbed. The  bitter  sobbing  ceased  at  last.  Dora  said  fare- 
well to  her  love.  She  lay  white  and  exhausted,  but  the 
anger  and  passion  had  died  away. 

"  Let  me  live  with  you,  father,"  she  said,  humbly.  "  1 
will  serve  you,  and  obey  you.  I  am  content,  more  than 
content,  with  my  own  home.  But  for  my  little  children, 
let  all  be  as  it  was  years  ago/' 

When  the  little  ones,  like  the  flowers,  had  gone  to  sleep, 
and  Dora  had  gone  into  the  pretty  white  room  prepared 
for  her,  Ralph  rose  to  take  his  leave. 

"  Surely,"  said  Thome,  "  you  are  not  leaving  us.  You 
promised  to  stay  a  whole  week. " 

"  1  know,"  said  the  young  farmer;  "  but  you  have  many 
to  think  for  now,  Mr.  Thorne.  The  time  will  come  when 
the  poor,  wearied  girl  sleeping  above  us  will  be  Lady 
Earle.  Her  husband  knew  I  loved  her.  No  shadow  even 
of  suspicion  must  rest  upon  her.  While  your  daughter  re- 
mains under  your  roof,  I  shall  not  visit  you  again. " 

Dora's  father  knew  the  young  man  was  right. 

"Let  me  see  the  little  ones  sometimes/'  continued 
Ralph;  "  and  if  large  parcels  of  toys  and  books  find  their 
way  to  the  Elms,  you  will  know  who  sent  them.  But  I 
must  not  come  in  Dora's  way;  she  is  no  longer  Dora 
Thorne." 

As  Stephen  watched  the  young  man  walking  quickly 
through  the  long  gray  fields,  he  wished  that  Dora  had 
never  seen  Ronald  Earle. 

Poor  Dora's  troubles  were  not  yet  ended.  When  the 
warm  August  sun  peeped  into  her  room  on  the  following 
morning,  she  did  not  see  it  shine;  when  the  children  crept 


DORA    THOBNE.  8? 

to  her  side  and  called  for  mamma,  she  was  deaf  to  their 
little  voices.  The  tired  head  tossed  wearily  to  and  fro,  the 
burning  eyes  would  not  close.  A  raging  fever  had  her  ia 
its  fierce  clutches.  When  Mrs.  Thorne,  alarmed  by  the 
children's  cries,  came  in,  Dora  did  not  know  her,  but  cried 
out  loudly  that  she  was  a  false  woman,  who  had  lured  her 
husband  from  her. 

They  sent  in  all  haste  for  aid;  but  the  battle  was  long 
and  fierce.  During  the  hours  of  delirium  Mrs.  Thorne 

Cleaned  sorrowfully  some  portions  of  her  daughter's  story, 
he  cried  out  incessantly  against  a  fair  woman — one  Val- 
entine— whom  Konald  loved — cried  in  scorn  and  anger. 
Frequently  she  was  in  a  garden,  behind  some  trees;  then 
confronting  some  one  with  flaming  eyes,  sobbing  that  she 
did  not  believe  it;  then  hiding  her  face  and  crying  out: 
**  He  has  ceased  to  love  me — let  me  die!" 
But  the  time  came  when  the  fierce  fever  burned  itself 
out,  and  Dora  lay  weak  and  helpless  as  a  little  child.     She 
recovered  slowly,  but  she  was  never  the  same  again.     Her 
youth,  hope,  love,  and  happiness  were  all  dead.     No  smile 
or  dimple,  no  pretty  blush,  came  to  the  changed  face;  the 
old  coy  beauty  was  all  gone. 

Calm  and  quiet,  with  deep,  earnest  eyes,  and  lips  that 
seldom  smiled,  Dora  seemed  to  have  found  another  self. 
Even  with  her  children  the  sad  restraint  never  wore  off  nor 
grew  less.  If  they  wanted  to  play,  they  sought  the  farmer 
in  the  fields,  the  good-natured  nurse,  or  the  indulgent 
grandmamma — never  the  sad,  pale  mother.  If  they  were 
m  trouble  then  they  sought  her. 

Dora  asked  for  work.     She  would  have  been  dairy-maid, 
house-maid,  or  anything  else,  but  her  father  said  "No." 
A  pretty  little  room  was  given  to  her,  with  woodbines  and 
:          peeping   in   at  the  window.     Here  for  long  hours 
.•  day,  while  the  children  played  in  the  meadows,  she 
sat  and  sewed.  There,  too,  Dora,  for  the  first  time,  learned 
Ronald,  far  away  in  sunny  Italy,  failed  to  teach  her 
— how  to  think  and  r  :  boxes  of  books  came  from 

'.own  of  Shorebeaeh.  Stephen  Thorne  spared  no 
trouble  or  expense  in  pleasing  his  daughter.  Dora  won- 
dered that  she  had  never  cared  for  books,  now  that  deeper 
and  more  solemn  thoughts  cume  to  her.  The  pale  face 
took  a  new  i  ;  10  one  could  have  believed  that  the 

'i  the  sweet  voice  and  refined  accent 


38  •        DORA    THORNE. 

was  the  daughter  of  the  blunt  farmer  Thorne  and  hia 
homely  wife. 

A  few  weeks  passed,  and  but  for  the  little  ones  Dora 
would  have  believed  the  whole  to  have  been  but  a  long, 
dark  dream.  She  would  not  think  of  Ronald;  she  would 
jioS  remember  his  love,  his  sacrifices  for  her;  she  thought 
only  of  her  wrongs  and  his  cruel  words. 

The  children  grew  and  throve.  Dora  had  no  care  at 
present  as  to  their  education.  From  her  they  learned  good 
English,  and  between  herself  and  the  faithful  young  nurse 
they  could  learn,  she  thought,  tolerable  Italian.  She 
would  not  think  of  a  future  that  might  take  these  beloved 
children  from  her.  She  ignored  Ronald's  claim  to  them — 
they  were  hers.  He  had  tired  of  them  when  he  tired  of 
her.  She  never  felt  the  days  monotonous  in  that  quiet 
farm-house,  as  others  might  have  done.  A  dead  cairn 
seemed  to  surround  her;  but  it  was  destined  soon  to  be 
broken. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

RONALD  did  not  return  in  the  evening  to  the  pretty  villa 
where  he  had  once  been  so  happy.  In  the  warmth  of  his 
anger,  he  felt  that  he  never  could  look  again  upon  his 
wife.  To  his  sensitive,  refined  nature  there  was  something 
more  repulsive  in  the  dishonorable  act  she  had  committed 
than  there  would  have  been  in  a  crime  of  deeper  dye.  He 
was  shocked  and  startled  —  more  so  than  if  he  awoke 
some  fair  summer  morning  to  fine  Dora  dead  by  his  side. 
She  was  indeed  dead  to  him  in  one  sense.  The  ideal  girl, 
all  purity,  gentleness,  and  truth,  whom  he  had  loved  and 
•married,  had,  it  appeared,  never  really  existed  after  all. 
He  shrunk  from  the  idea  of  the  angry,  vehement  words 
and  foul  calumnies.  He  shrunk  from  the  woman  who  had 
forgotten  every  rule  of  good-breeding,  every  trace  of  good 
manners,  in  angry,  fierce  passion. 

How  was  he  ever  to  face  Miss  Charteris  again?  She 
would  never  mention  one  word  of  what  had  happened,  but 
ho  could  ill  brook  the  shame  Dora  had  brought  upon  him. 
He  remembered  the  summer  morning  in  the  woods  when 
he  told  Valentine  the  story  of  his  love,  and  had  pictured 
his  pretty,  artless  Dora  to  her.  Could  the  angry  woman 


DORA    THORITE.  89 

who  had  dared  to  insult  him,  and  to  calumniate  the  fairest 
and  truest  lady  in  all  England,  possibly  be  the  same? 

Ronald  had  never  before  been  brought  into  close  contact 
with  dishonor.  He  had  some  faint  recollection  at  college 
of  having  seen  and  known  a  young  man,  the  son  of  a 
wealthy  nobleman,  scorned  and  despised,  driven  from  all 
society,  and  he  was  told  that  it  was  because  he  had  bee  a 
detected  in  the  act  of  listening  at  the  principal's  door.  He 
remembered  how  old  and  young  had  shunned  this  young 
man  as  though  he  were  plague-stricken;  and  now  his  own 
wife  Dora  had  done  the  very  same  thing  under  circum- 
stances that  rendered  the  dishonor  greater.  He  asked 
himself,  with  a  cynical  smile,  what  he  could  expect?  He 
had  married  for  love  of  a  pretty,  child -like  face,  never  giv- 
ing any  thought  to  principle,  mind,  or  intellect.  The  only 
wonder  was  that  so  wretched  and  unequal  a  match  had  not 
turned  out  ten  times  worse.  His  father's  warning  rang  I'D 
his  ears.  How  blind,  how  foolish  he  had  been! 

Every  hope  of  his  own  life  was  wrecked,  every  hope  aad 
plan  of  his  father's  disappointed  and  dead.  There  seemed 
to  him  nothing  left  to  care  for.  His  wife — oh,  he  would 
not  think  of  her!  The  name  vexed  him.  He  could  not 
stand  in  Valentine's  presence  again,  and  for  the  first  time 
he  realized  what  she  had  been  to  him.  Home,  and  conse- 
quently England,  was  closed  to  him;  the  grand  mansion 
he  had  once  believed  his  had  faded  from  his  mind. 

Thinking  of  all  these  things,  Ronald's  love  for  his  young 
wife  seemed  changed  to  dislike.  Three  days  passed  before 
he  returned  home;  then  he  was  somewhat  startled  to  find 
her  really  gone.  He  had  anticipated  sullen  temper,  re- 
newed quarrels,  and  then  perhaps  a  separation,  but  he  was 
startled  to  find  her  actually  gone.  The  servant  gave  him 
the  cold  farewell  letter,  written  without  tears,  without 
sorrow.  He  tore  it  into  shreds  and  flung  it  from  him. 

"  The  last  act  in  the  farce,"  he  said,  bitterly.  "  If  1 
had  not  been  mad  I  should  have  foreseen  this." 

The  silent,  deserted  rooms  did  not  remind  him  of  the 
loving  young  wife  parted  from  him  forever.  He  was  too 
angry,  too  annoyed,  for  any  gentle  thoughts  to  influence 
him.  She  had  left  him — so  much  the  better;  there  could 
never  again  be  peace  between  them.  He  thought  with  re- 
gret of  the  little  ones — they  were  too  young  for  him  to  un- 
dertak"  charge  of  them,  so  that  they  were  best  left  with 


90  DORA  THOKNE. 

their  mother  for  a  time.  He  said  to  himself  that  he  must 
make  the  best  use  he  could  of  his  life;  everything  seemed 
at  an  end.  He  felt  very  lonely  and  unhappy  as  he  sat  in 
his  solitary  home;  and  the  more  sorrow  present  upon  him, 
the  more  bitter  his  thoughts  grew,  the  deeper  became  his 
dislike  to  this  unhappy  young  wife. 

Ronald  wrote  to  his  mother,  but  said  no  word  to  her  of 
the  cause  of  their  quarrel. 

"  Dora  and  I,"  he  said,  "  will  never  live  together  again 
— perhaps  never  meet.  She  has  gone  home  to 'her  father; 
I  am  going  to  wander  over  the  wide  earth.  Will  you  in- 
duce my  father  to  receive  my  children  at  Earlescourt?  And 
will  you  see  Mr.  Burt,  and  arrange  that  half  of  my  small 
income  is  settled  upon  Dora?" 

But  to  all  his  wife's  entreaties  Lord  Earle  turned  a  deaf 
ear  He  declared  that  never  during  his  life-time  should 
the  children  of  Dora  Thome  enter  Earlescourt.  His  reso- 
lution was  fixed  and  unalterable.  How,  he  asked,  was  he 
to  trust  the  man  who  had  once  deceived  him?  For  aught 
he  knew,  the  separation  between  Ronald  and  his  wife  might 
be  a  deeply  laid  scheme,  and,  the  children  once  with  him, 
there  would  be  a  grand  reconciliation  between  the  parents. 

"  I  am  not  surprised,  "  he  said,  "that  the  unhappy  boy 
is  weary  of  his  pretty  toy.  It  could  not  be  otherwise;  he 
must  bear  the  consequences  of  his  own  folly.  He  had  time 
for  thought,  he  made  his  own  choice — now  let  him  abide 
by  it.  You  have  disregarded  my  wish,  Lady  Helena,  in 
even  naming  the  matter  to  me.  Let  all  mention  of  it 
cease.  I  have  no  son.  One  thing  remember — I  am  not 
hard  upon  you — you  can  go  where  you  like,  see  whom  you 
like,  and  spend  what  money  you  will,  and  as  you  will." 

Lady  Earle  was  not  long  in  availing  herself  of  the  per- 
mission. There  was  great  excitement  at  the  Elms  one 
morning,  caused  by  the  receipt  of  a  letter  from  Lady  Earle 
saying  that  she  would  be  there  on  the  same  day  to  visit  the 
son's  wife  and  children. 

The  little  ones  looked  up  to  her  with  wondering  eyes. 
To  them  she  was  like  a  vision,  with  her  noble  face  and  dis- 
tinguished air. 

Stephen  Thorne  and  his  wife  received  the  great  lady  not 
without  some  trepidation;  yet  they  were  in  no  way  to 
blame.  The  fatal  marriage  had  been  as  great  a  blow  to 
them  as  to  Lord  and  Lady  Earle.  With  the  quiet  dignity 


DORA    THORNE.  91 

and  graceiul  ease  that  never  deserted  her,  Lady  Earle  soon 
made  them  feel  at  home.  She  started  in  utter  surprise, 
when  a  quiet,  grave  woman,  on  whose  face  sweetness  and 
sullen  humor  were  strangely  mingled,  .entered  the  room. 
This  could  not  be  pretty,  coy,  blushing  Dora!  Where 
were  the  dimples  and  smiles?  The  large  dark  eyes  raised 
so  sadly  to  hers  were  full  of  strange,  pathetic  beauty. 
With  sharp  pain  the  thought  struck  Lady  Earle,  "  What 
must  not  Dora  have  suffered  to  have  changed  her  so  great- 
ly!" The  sad  eyes  and  worn  face  touched  her  as  no  beauty 
could  have  done.  She  clasped  Dora  in  her  arms  and  kissed 
her. 

**  You  are  my  daughter  now,"  she  said,  in  that  rich, 
musical  voice  Which  Dora  remembered  so  well.  "  We  will 
not  mention  the  past;  it  is  irrevocable.  If  you  sinned 
against  duty  and  obedience,  your  face  tells  me  you  have 
Buffered.  ^V  hat  has  come  between  you  and  my  son  I  do 
not  seek  to  know.  The  shock  must  have  been  a  great  one 
which  parted  you,  for  he  gave  up  all  the  world  for  you, 
Dora,  years  ago.  We  will  not  speak  of  Ronald.  Our  care 
must  be  the  children.  Of  course  you  wish  them  to  remain 
withyou?" 

"  While  it  is  possible,"  said  Dora,  wearily.  **  1  shall 
never  leave  home  again;  but  I  can  not  hope  to  keep  them 
here  always." 

"  I  should  have  liked  to  adopt  them,"  said  Lady  Earle; 
"  to  take  them  home  and  educate  them,  but — " 

Lord  Earle  will  not  permit  if,"  interrupted  Dora, 
"  1  know — I  do  not  wonder." 
must  let  me  do  all  1  can  for  them  here,"  con- 
tinned  Lady  Earle;  "  1  have  made  all  plans  and  arrange- 
ments. We  will  give  the  children  an  education  befitting 
their  position,  without  removing  them  from  you.  Then 
we  shall  see  what  time  will  do.  Let  me  see  the  little  ones. 
I  wish  you  had  called  one  Helena,  after  me." 

Dora  remembered  why  she  had  not  done  so,  and  a  flush 
of  shame  rose  to  her  face. 

They  were  beautiful  children,  and  Dora  brought  them 
proudly  to  the  stately  lady  waiting  for  them.  Lady  Earle 
took  Beatrice  in  her  arms. 

"  Why,  Dora/'  she  said,  admiringly,  '*she  has  tha 
Eurle  fiu-r.  with  a  novel  charm  all  its  own.  The  child 
will  grow  up  into  a  magnificent  woman." 


calmly. 
"  Yo 


92  DORA    THOENE. 

"  She  has  the  Earle  spirit  and  pride,"  said  the  young 
mother;  "  1  find  it  hard  to  manage  her  even  now." 

Then  Lady  Earle  looked  at  the  fair,  spirituelle  face  and 
golden  hair  of  little  Lillian.  The  shy,  dove-like  eyes  and 
s»veet  lips  charmed  her. 

"There  is  a  great  contrast  between  them,"  she  said, 
thoughtfully.  "  They  will  require  careful  training,  Dora; 
and  now  we  will  speak  of  the  matter  which  brought  me 
here." 

Dora  noticed  that,  long  as  she  remained,  Lady  Earlo 
never  let  Beatrice  leave  her  arms;  occasionally  she  bent 
over  Lillian  and  touched  her  soft  golden  curls,  but  the 
child  with  the  "  Earle  face  "  was  Mie  one  she  loved  best. 

Together  with  Stephen  Thome  and  his  wife  Lady  Earle 
went  over  the  Elms.  •  The  situation  delighted  her;  noth- 
ing could  be  better  or  more  healthy  for  the  children,  but 
the  interior  of  the  house  must  be  altered.  Then  with  deli- 
cate grace  that  could  only  charm,  never  wound,  Lady  Earle 
unfolded  her  plans.  Sbe  wished  a  new  suite  of  rooms  to 
be  built  for  Dora  and  the  children,  to  be  nicely  furnished 
with  everything  that  could  be  required.  She  would  bear 
the  expense.  Immediately  on  her  return  she  would  send 
an  efficient  French  maid  for  the  little  ones,  and  in  the 
course  of  a  year  or  two  she  would  engage  the  services  of 
an  accomplished  governess,  who  would  undertake  the  edu- 
cation of  Beatrice  and  Lillian  without  removing  them  from 
their  mother's  care. 

"  1  shall  send  a  good  piano  and  harp,"  said  Lady  Earle, 
"  it  will  be  my  pride  and  pleasure  to  select  books,  music, 
drawings,  and  everything  else  my  grandchildren  require. 
1  should  wish  them  always  to  be  nicely  dressed  and  care- 
fully trained.  To  you,  Dora,  I  must  leave  the  highest  and 
best  training  of  all.  Teach  them  to  be  good,  and  to  do 
their  duty.  They  have  learned  all  when  they  have  learned 
that." 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  the  thought  came  home  to 
Dora:  How  was  she  to  teach  what  she  had  never  learned 
and  had  failed  to  practice?  That  night,  long  after  Lady 
Earle  had  gone  away,  and  the  children  had  fallen  to  sleep, 
Dora  knelt  in  the  moonlight  and  prayed  that  she  might 
learn  to  teach  her  children  to  do  their  duty. 

As  Lady  Earle  wished,  the  old  farm-house  was  left  in-, 
tact,  and  a  new  group  of  buildings  added  to  it.  There  was 


DORA    THOENE.  93 

ft  pretty  sitting-room  for  Dora,  and  a  larger  one  to  serve  as 
a  study  for  the  children,  large  sleeping-rooms,  and  a  bath- 
room, all  replete  with  comfort.  Two  years  passed  before 
all  was  completed,  and  Lady  Earle  thought  it  time  to  send 
a  governess  to  the  Elms. 


During  those  years  little  or  nothing  was  heard  from 
Ronald.  After  reading  the  cold  letter  Dora  left  for  him, 
it  seemed  as  though  all  love,  all  care,  all  interest  died  out 
of  his  heart.  He  sat  for  many  long  hours  thinking  of  the 
blighted  life  "  he  could  not  lay  down,  yet  cared  little  to 
hold." 

He  was  only  twenty-three — the  age  at  which  life  opens 
to  most  men;  yet  he  was  worn,  tired,  weary  of  everthing 
— the  energies  that  once  seemed  boundless,  the  ambition 
once  so  fierce  and  proud,  all  gone.  His  whole  nature  re- 
coiled from  the  shock.  Had  Dora,  in  the  fury  of  her  jeal- 
ousy and  rage,  tried  to  kill  him,  he  would  have  thought 
that  but  a  small  offense  compared  with  the  breach  of  honor 
in  crouching  behind  the  trees  to  listen.  He  thought  of  the 
quiet,  grand  beauty  of  Valentine's  face  while  Dora  was 
convulsed  with  passion.  He  remembered  the  utter  wonder 
in  Valentine's  eyes  when  Dora's  flamed  upon  them.  He 
re  in  .'inhered  the  sickening  sense  of  shame  that  had  cowed 
him  as  he  listened  to  her  angry,  abusive- words.  And  this 
untrained,  ignorant,  ill-bred  woman  was  his  wife!  For 
her  he  had  given  up  home,  parents,  position,  wealth — all 
id  in  life  worth  caring  for.  For  her,  and  through  her, 
'ood  there  alone  in  the  world. 

These  thoughts  first  maddened  him,  then  drove  him  to 
i  r.     \Vhat  had  life  left  for  him?    He  could  not  return 
;ji;itil;    his  father's  doors  were  closed  against  him. 
There  wag  no  path  open  to  him;  without  his  father'.^ 
he  could  not  get  into  Parliament.     He  could  not  work  as 
an  artist  at  home.    He  could  not  remain  in  Florence;  never 
again,  he  said  to  himself,  would  he  see  Valentine  Charteris 
—Valentine,  who  had  been  the  witness  of  his  humiliation 
and  disgrace.    Sooner  anything  than  that.    He  would  leave 
the  villa  and  go  somewhere — he  cared  little  where.     Xo 
k,  no  rest  came  to  him.     Ha'l  his  misfortunes  been  ac- 
---hiid  th<'  ':t'r  than  they  were,  the  re- 

sult "f  his  boyish  folly  and  disobedience,  he  would  have 


94  JX)RA    THORNE. 

found  thbm  easier  to  bear;  as  it  was,  the  recollection  that 
it  was  all  his  own  fault  drove  him  mad. 

Before  morning  he  had  written  a  farewell  note  to  Lady 
Charteris,  saying  that  he  was  leaving  Florence  at  once,  and 
would  not  be  able  to  see  her  again,  He  wrote  to  Valentine, 
but  the  few  stiff  words  expressed  little  of  what  he  felt.  He 
prayed  her  to  forget  the  miserable  scene  that  would  haunt 
him  to  his  dying  day;  to  pardon  the  insults  that  had  driven 
him  nearly  mad ;  to  pardon  the  mad  jealousy,  the  dishonor 
of  Dora;  to  forget  him  and  all  belonging  to  him.  When 
Miss  Charteris  read  the  letter  she  knew  that  all  effort  to 
restore  peace  would  for  a  time  be  in  vain.  She  heard  the 
day  following  that  the  clever  young  artist,  Mr.  Earle, 
had  left. 

Countess  Rosali  loudly  lamented  Ronald's  departure.  It 
was  so  strange,  she  said ;  the  dark-eyed  little  wife  and  her 
childern  had  gone  home  to  England,  and  the  husband,  after 
selling  off  his  home,  had  gone  with  Mr.  Charles  Standon 
into  the  interior  of  Africa.  What  was  he  going  to  do 
there? 

She  lamented  him  for  two  days  without  ceasing,  until 
Valentine  was  tired  of  her  many  conjectures.  He  was 
missed  in  the  brilliant  salons  of  Florence,  but  by  none  so 
much  as  by  "Valentine  Charteris. 

What  the  pretty,  coquettish  countess  had  said  was  true. 
After  making  many  plans  and  forming  many  resolutions, 
Ronald  met  Mr.  Standon,  who  was  on  the  point  of  joining 
an  exploring  expedition,  in  South  Africa.  He  gladly  con- 
sented to  accompany  him.  There  was  but  little  prepara- 
tion needed.  Four  days  after  the  never-to-be-forgotten 
garden  scene,  Ronald  Earle  left  Italy  and  became  a  wan- 
derer upon  the  face  of  the  earth. 


CHAPTER  XVL 

VALENTINE  CHARTERIS  never  told  the  secret.  She  list- 
ened to  the  wonder  and  conjectures  of  all  around  her,  but 
not  even  to  her  mouther  did  she  hint  what  had  passed. 
She  pitied  Ronald  profoundly.  She  knew  the  shock  Dora 
had  inflicted  on  his  sensitive,  honorable  disposition.  For 
Dora  herself  she  felt  nothing  but  compassion.  Her  calm, 
serene  nature  was  incapable  of  such  jealousies.  Valentine 


DORA    THORITE.  95 

could  never  be  jealous  or  mean,  bnt  she  could  understand 
the  torture  that  had  made  shy,  gentle  Dora  both. 

"  Jealous  of  me,  poor  child!"  eaid  Valentine  to  herself* 
"  Tvothing  but  ignorance  can  excuse  her.  As  though  I, 
with  half  Florence  at  my  feet,  cared  for  her  husband,  ex^ 
cept  as  a  dear  and  true  friend." 

So  the  little  villa  was  deserted;  the  gaunt,  silent  servant 
found  a  fresh  place.  Ronald's  pictures  were  eagerly  bought 
up;  the  pretty  countess,  after  looking  very  sentimental  and 
sad  for  some  days,  forgot  her  sorrow  and  its  cause  in  the 
novelty  of  making  the  acquaintance  of  an  impassive,  un- 
impressionable  American.  Florence  soon  forgot  one  whom 
she  had  been  proud  to  know  and  honor. 

Two  months  afterward,  as  Miss  Charteris  sat  alone  in  her 
favorite  nook — the  bower  of  trees  where  poor  Dora's  trage- 
dy had  been  enacted — she  was  found  by  the  Prince  di  Bor 
gezi.  Every  one  had  eaid  that  sooner  or  later  it  would 
come  to  this.  Prince  di  Bonjezi,  the  most  fastidious  of 
men,  who  had  admired  many  women  but  loved  none, 
whose  verdict  was  the  rule  of  fashion,  loved  Valentine 
Charteris.  Her  fair  English  face;  with  its  calm,  grand 
beauty,  her  graceful  dignily,  her  noble  mind  and  pure  soul, 
had  captivated  him.  For  many  long  weeks  he  hovered 
round  Valentine,  longing  yet  dreading  to  speak  the  words 
which  would  unite  or  part  them  for  lite. 

Lately  there  had  been  rumors  that  Lady  Charteris  and 
her  daughter  intended  to  leave  Florence;  then  Prince  di 
Borgezi  decided  upon  knowing  his  fate.  He  sought  Val- 
entine, and  found  her  seated  under  the  shade  of  her  favor' 
ite  trees. 

"  Miss  Charteris,"  he  said,  after  a  few  words  of  greet- 
ing, "  I  have  come  to  ask  you  the  greatest  favor,  the  sweet' 
est  boon,  you  can  confer  on  any  man." 

"  What  is  it?"  asked  Valentine,  calmly,  anticipating 
some  trifling  request 

"  Your  permission  to  keep  for  my  own  the  original '  Queen 
Guinevere,'  "  he  replied;  "  that  picture  is  more  to  me  than 
all  that  I  possess.  Only  one  thing  is  dearer,  the  original 
May  I  ever  hope  to  make  that  mine  also?" 

Valentine  opened  her  magnificent  eyes  in  wonder.  It 
was  an  otter  of  marriage  then  that  he  was  making. 

'*  Have  you  no  word  for  me.  Miss  1,'harteris?      he  said. 


96  DORA    THORtfE. 

"  I  lay  my  life  and  my  love  at  your  feet     Have  you  no 
word  for  me?" 

'  I  really  do  not  know  what  to  say/'  replied  Valentine- 

'  You  do  not  refuse  me?"  said  her  lover. 

*  Well,  no,"  replied  Valentine. 

*  And  you  do  not  accept  me?"  he  continued. 
'  Decidedly  not,"  she  replied,  more  firmly. 

4  Then  I  shall  consider  there  is  some  ground  for  hope," 
he  said. 

Valentine  had  recovered  her  self-possession.  Her  lover 
gazed  anxiously  at  her  beautiful  face;  its  proud  calm  was 
unbroken. 

"  I  will  tell  you  how  it  is,"  resumed  Valentine,  after  a 
short  pause;  "  I  like  you  better,  perhaps,  than  any  man 
1  know,  but  I  do  not  love  you." 

"  You  do  not  forbid  me  to  try  all  I  can  to  win  your 
love?"  asked  the  prince. 

*'  No,"  was  the  calm  reply.  "  I  esteem  you  very  high- 
ly, prince.  1  can  not  say  more. " 

"  But  you  will  in  time,"  he  replied.  "  I  would  not 
change  your  quiet,  friendly  liking,  Miss  Charteris,  for  the 
love  of  any  other  woman." 

Under  the  bright  sky  the  handsome  Italian  told  the  story 
of  his  love  in  words  that  were  poetry  itself — how  he  wor- 
shiped the  fair  calm  girl  so  unlike  the  women  of  his  own 
clime.  As  she  listened,  Valentine  thought  of  that  sum- 
mer morning  years  ago  when  Eonald  had  told  her  the  story 
of  his  love;  and  then  Valentine  owned  to  her  own  heart, 
that,  if  Eonald  were  in  Prince  di  Borgezi's  place,  she  would 
not  listen  so  calmly  nor  reply  so  coolly. 

"  How  cold  and  stately  these  English  girls  are!"  thought 
her  lover.  "  They  are  more  like  goddesses  than  women. 
Would  any  word  of  mine  ever  disturb  the  proud  coldness 
of  that  perfect  face?" 

It  did  not  then,  but  before  morning  ended  Prince  di  Bor- 
gezi  had  obtained  permission  to  visit  England  in  the  spring 
and  ask  again  the  same  .question.  Valentine  liked  him. 
She  admired  his  noble  and  generous  character,  his  artistic 
tastes;  his  fastidious  exclusiveness  had  a  charm,  for  her; 
she  did  not  love  him,  but  it  seemed  to  her  more  than  prob- 
able that  the  day  would  come  when  she  would  do  so. 
******* 

Lady  Chartoris  and  her  daughter  bft  Florence  and  re- 


DORA    THORNE.  97 

turned  to  Greenoke.  Lady  Earle  paid  them  a  long  visit, 
and  heard  all  they  had  to  tell  of  her  idolized  son.  Lady 
Charteris  spoke  kindly  of  Dora;  and  Valentine,  believing 
she  could  do  something  to  restore  peace,  sent  an  affection- 
ate greeting,  and  asked  permission  to  visit  the  Elms. 

Lady  Earle  saw  she  had  made  a  mistake  when  she  repeat- 
ed Valentine's  words  to  Dora.  The  young  wife's  fane 
flushed  burning  red,  and  then  grew  white  as  death. 

**  Pray  bring  me  no  more  messages  from  Miss  Char- 
teris," she  replied.  "  I  do  not  like  her — she  would  only 
come  to  triumph  over  me;  I  decline  to  see  her.  I  have  na 
message  to  send  her." 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  an  inkling  of  the  truth  came  to 
Lady  Earle.  Evidently  Dora  was  bitterly  jealous  of  Val- 
entine. Had  she  any  cause  for  it?  Could  it  be  that  her 
unhappy  son  had  learned  to  love  Miss  Charteris  when  it 
was. all  too  late?  From  that  day  Lady  Earle  pitied  her 
BOM  with  a  deeper  and  more  tender  compassion;  she  trans- 
lated Dora's  curt  words  into  civil  English,  and  then  wrote 
to  Miss  Charteris.  Valentine  quite  understood  upon  read- 
ing them  that  she  was  not  yet  pardoned  by  Honald  Earle'p 
wife. 

Time  passed  on  without  any  great  changes,  until  th& 
year  came  when  Lady  Earle  thought  her  grandchildren 
should  begin  their  education.  She  was  long  in  selecting 
one  to  whom  she  could  intrust  them.  At  length  she  im-i 
with  Mrs.  Vyvian,  the  widow  of  an  officer  who  had  died  in 
India,  a  lady  qualified  in  every  vray  for  the  task,  accomp- 
•!,  a  good  linguist,  speaking  French  and  Italian  a.s 
fluently  as  English — an  accomplished  musician,  an  ar: 
no  mean  skill,  and,  what  Lady  Earlu  valued  still  more,  a 
woman  of  sterling  principles  and  earnest  religious  feeling- 
It  was  not  a  light  ta*k  that  Mrs.  Vyvian  undertook. 
The  children  had  reached  their  fifth  year,  and  for  Un 
years  she  bound  herself  by  promise  to  remain  with  them 
night  and  day,  to  teach  and  train  them.  It  is  true  the 
reward  promised  was  great.  Ladv  Earle  settled  a  hand- 
some annuity  upon  her.  vian  was  not  disnt 
by  the  lonely  house,  the  complete  isolation  from  all  so 
or  the  homely  appearance  of  the  farmer  and  his  wife.  A 
piano  ami  a  harp  were  sent  to  the  Elms.  Every  week 
Ivirle  dispatched  a  large  box  of  books,  and  the  gov- 
:is  i«'uU-  content. 


98  DORA    THORHTE. 

Mrs.  Vyvian,  to  whom  Lady  Earle  intrusted  every  detail 
of  her  SOD'S  marriage,  was  well  pleased  to  find  that  Dora 
liked  her  and  began  to  show  some  taste  for  study.  Dora, 
who  would  dream  of  other  things  when  Ronald  read,  now 
tried  to  learn  herself.  She  was  not  ashamed  to  sit  hour 
after  hour  at  the  piano  trying  to  master  some  simple  little 
air,  or  to  ask  questions  when  anything  puzzled  her  in  hot 
reading.  Mrs.  Vyvian,  so  calm  and  wise,  so  gentle,  yet 
so  strong,  taught  her  so  cleverly  that  Dora  never  felt  her 
own  ignorance;  nor  did  she  grow  disheartened  as  she  had 
done  with  Ronald. 

The  time  came  when  Dora  could  play  pretty  simple  bal- 
lads, singing  them  in  her  own  bird-like,  clear  voice,  and 
when  she  could  appreciate  great  writers,  and  speak  of  them 
without  any  mistake  either  as  to  their  names  or  their  works. 

It  was  a  simple,  pleasant,  happy  life;  the  greater  part  of 
the  day  was  spent  by  mother  and  children  in  study.  lu 
the  evening  came  long  rambles  through  the  green  woods, 
where  Dora  seemed  to  know  the  name  and  history  of  every 
flower  that  grew;  over  the  smiling  meadows,  whbre  the 
kine  stood  knee-deep  in  the  long,  scented  giass;  over  the 
rooks,  and  down  by  the  sea-shore,  where  the  waves  chanted 
their  grand  anthem,  and  broke  in  white  foam-drifts  upon 
the  sands. 

No  wonder  the  young  girls  imbibed  a  deep  warm  love  for 
all  that  was  beautiful  in  Nature.  Dora  never  wearied  of 
it — from  the  smallest  blade  of  grass  to  the  most  stately  of 
forest  trees,  she  loved  it  all. 

The  little  twin  sisters  grew  in  beauty  both  in  body  and 
mind;  but  the  contrast  between  them  was  great:  Beatrice 
was  the  more  beautiful  and  brilliant;  Lillian  the  more 
sweet  and  lovable.  Beatrice  was  all  fire  and  spirit;  her 
sister  was  gentle  and  calm.  Beatrice  had  great  faults  and 
great  virtues;  Lillian  was  simply  good  and  charming. 
Yet,  withal,  Beatrice  was  the  better  loved.  It  was  seldom 
that  any  one  refused  to  gratify  her  wishes. 

Dora  loved  both  children  tenderly;  but  the  warmest  love 
was  certainly  for  the  child  who  had  the  Earle  face.  She 
was  imperious  and  willful3  generous  to  a  fault,  impatient 
of  all  control;  but  her  greatest  fault,  Mrs.  Vyvian  said,  waa 
a  constant  craving  for  excitement;  a  distaste  for  and  dis- 
like of  oniet  and  retirement  She  would  ride  the  most  rest 


DORA    THOBBTE.  99 

ive  horse,  she  would  do  anything  to  break  the  ennui  and 
monotony  of  the  long  days. 

Beautiful,  daring,  and  restless,  every  day  running  a  hun- 
dred risks,  and  loved  the  better  for  the  dangers  she  ran, 
Beatrice  was  almost  worshiped  at  the  Elms.  Nothing  ever 
daunted  her,  nothing  ever  made  her  dull  or  sad.  Lillian 
was  gentle  and  quiet,  with  more  depth  of  character,  but 
little  power  of  showing  it;  somewhat  timid  and  diffident — a 
more  charming  ideal  of  an  English  girl  could  not  have  been 
found — spiritudle,  graceful,  and  refined;  so  serene  and  fair 
that  to  look  at  her  was  a  pleasure. 

LadyEarle  often  visited  the  Elms;  no  mystery  had  been 
made  to  the  girls — they  were  told  their  father  was  abroad 
and  would  not  return  for  many  years,  and  that  at  some 
distant  day  they  might  perhaps  live  with  him  in  his  own 
home.  They  did  not  ask  many  questions,  satisfied  to  be- 
lieve what  was  told  them,  not  seeking  to  know  more 

Lady  Earle  loved  the  young  girls  very  dearly.  Beatrice, 
BO  like  her  father,  was  undoubtedly  the  favorite.  Lord 
Earle  never  inquired  after  them;  when  Lady  Earle  asked 
for  a  larger  check  than  usual,  be  gave  it  to  her  with  a 
Binilo,  perfectly  understanding  its  destination,  but  never 
betraying  the  knowledge. 

So  eleven  years  passed  like  a  long  tranquil  dream.  The 
sun  rose  and  set,  the  tides  ebbed  and  flowed,  spring  flowers 
bloomed  and  died,  the  summer  skies  smiled,  autumn  leaves 
of  golden  hue  withered  on  the  ground,  and  winter  snows 
fell;  yet  no  change  came  to  the  quiet  homestead  in  the 
Kentish  meadows. 

Beatrice  and  Lillian  had  reached  their  sixteenth  year,  and 
two  fairer  girls  were  seldom  seen.  Mrs.  Vyvian's  efforts 
had  not  been  in  vain;  they  were  accomplished  far  beyond 
the  ordinary  run  of  young  girls.  Lillian  inherited  her 
father's  talent  for  drawing.  She  was  an  excellent  artist 
Beatrice  excelled  in  music.  She  had  a  magnificent  con- 
tralto voice  that  had  been  carefully  trained.  Both  were  cul- 
tivated, graceful,  elegant  girls,  and  Lady  Earle  of  ten  sighed 
to  think  they  should  be  living  in  such  profound  obscurity. 
She  could  do  nothing;  seventeen  years  had  not  changed  Lord 
Earle' s  resolution.  Time,  far  from  softening,  imbittered 
him  the  more  against  his  son.  Of  Ronald  Lady  Earle 
heard  but  little.  He  was  still  in  Africa;  he  wrote  at  rare 
intervals,  but  there  was  little  comfort  in  his  letters. 


100  DORA    THOESTB. 

Lady  Earle  did  what  she  could  for  her  grandchildren,  but 
it  was  a  strange,  unnatural  life.  They  knew  no  other  girls: 
they  had  never  been  twenty  miles  from  Knutsford.  All 
girlish  pleasures  and  enjoyments  were  a  sealed  book  to 
them.  They  had  never  been  to  a  party,  a  picnic,  or  a 
ball;  no  life  was  ever  more  simple,  more  quiet,  more  de- 
void of  all  amusement  than  theirs.  Lillian  was  satisfied 
and  happy;  her  rich,  teeming  fancy,  her  artistic  mind, 
and  contented,  sweet  disposition  would  have  rendered  her 
happy  under  any  circumstances — but  it  was  different  with 
brilliant,  beautiful  Beatrice.  No  wild  bird  in  a  cage  ever 
pined  for  liberty  or  chafed  under  restraint  more  than  she 
did.  She  cried  out  loudly  against  the  unnatural  solitude, 
the  isolation  of  such  a  life. 

Eleven  years  had  done  much  for  Dora.  The  coy,  girlish 
beauty  that  had  won  Eonaid  Earle's  heart  had  given  place 
to  a  sweet,  patient  womanhood.  Constant  association  with 
one  so  elegant  and  refined  as  Mrs.  Vyvian  had  done  for  her 
what  nothing  else  could  have  achieved.  Dora  had  caught 
the  refined,  high-bred  accent,  the  graceful,  cultivated 
manner,  the  easy  dignity.  She  had  become  imbued  with 
Mrs.  Vyvian's  noble  thoughts  and  ideas. 

Dora  retained  two  peculiarities — one  was  a  great  dislike 
for  Eonaid,  the  other  a  sincere  dread  of  all  love  and  lovers 
for  her  children.  From  her  they  heard  nothing  but  depre- 
ciation of  men.  All  men  were  alike,  false,  insincere,  ficlde, 
cruel;  all  love  was  nonsense  and  folly.  Mrs.  Vyvian  tried 
her  best  to  counteract  these  ideas;  they  had  this  one  evil 
consequence — that  neither  Lilian  nor  Beatrice  would  ever 
dream  of  even  naming  such  subjects  to  their  mother,  who 
ehould  have  been  their  friend  and  confidante.  If  in  the 
books  Lady  Earle  sent  there  was  any  mention  of  this  love 
their  mother  dreaded  so,  they  went  to  Mrs.  Vyvian  or  puz- 
zled over  it  themselves.  With  these  two  exceptions  Dora 
had  become  a  thoughtful,  gentle  woman.  '  As  her  mind 
became  more  cultivated  she  understood  better  the  dishonor 
of  the  fault  which  had  robbed  her  of  Bonald's  love.  Her 
fair  face  grew  crimson  when  she  remembered  what  she  had 
done. 

It  was  a  fair  and  tranquil  womanhood;  the  dark  eyes 
retained  their  wondrous  light  and  beauty;  the  curling  rings 
of  dark  hair  were  luxuriant  as  ever;  the  lips  wore  a  patient, 
aweet  expression.  The  clear,  healthy  country  air  had  given 


DOHA    THOKNE.  101 

a  delicate  bloom  to  the  fair  face.     Dora  looked  more  like 
the  elder  sister  of  the  young  girls  than  their  mother. 

The  quiet,  half -dreamy  monotony  was  broken  at  last 
Mrs.  Vyvian  was  suddenly  summoned  home.  Her  mother, 
to  whom  she  was  warmly  attached,  was  said  to  be  dying, 
and  she  wished  her  last  few  days  to  be  spent  with  her 
daughter.  At  the  same  time  Lady  Earle  wrote  to  say  that 
her  husband  was  so  ill  that  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  look 
for  any  lady  to  supply  Mrs.  Vyvian's  place.  The  conse- 
quence was  that,  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives,  the  young 
girls  were  left  for  a  few  weeks  without  a  companion  and 
without  surveillance. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ONE  beautiful  morning  in  May,  Lillian  went  out  alone  to 
sketch.  The  beauty  of  the  sky  and  sea  tempted  her;  fleecy- 
white  clouds  floated  gently  over  the  blue  heavens;  the  sun 
shone  upon  the  water  until,  at  times,  it  resembled  a  huge 
sea  of  rippling  gold.  Far  off  in  the  distance  were  the 
Shining  white  sails  of  two  boats;  they  looked  in  the  golden 
Aaze  like  the  brilliant  wings  of  some  bright  bird.  The 
sun  upon  the  white  sails  struck  her  fancy,  and  she  wanted 
to  sketch  the  effect. 

It  was  the  kind  of  morning  that  makes  life  seem  all 
beauty  and  gladness,  even  if  the  heart  is  weighed  down, 
with  care.  It  was  a  luxury  merely  to  live  and  breathe. 
The  leaves  were  all  springing  in  the  woods;  the  meadows 
were  green;  wild  flowers  bloesomed  by  the  hedge-rows;  the 
birds  sung  gayly  of  the  coming  summer;  the  white  haw- 
thorn threw  its  rich  fragrance  all  around,  and  the  yellow 
broom  bloomed  on  the  cliffs. 

As  she  sat  there,  Lillian  was  indeed  a  fair  picture  herself 
on  that  May  morning;  the  sweet,  s)>iritudle  face;  the 
noble  head  with  its  crown  of  golden  hair;  the  violet  eyes, 
so  full  of  thought;  the  sensitive  lips,  sweet  yet  firm;  th& 
white  forehead,  the  throne  of  intellect.  The  little  fingers 
that  moved  rapidly  and  gracefully  over  the  drawing  were 
white  and  shapely;  there  was  a  delicate  rose-leaf  flush  in 
the  pretty  hand.  She  looked  fair  and  tranquil  as  the 
morning  itself. 

Thi-  pure,  sweet  face  had  no  touch  of  fire  or  passion;  its 
serenity  was  all  unmoved;  the  world  had  never  breathed  on 


10$  DORA    TM)BNE. 

the  innocent,  child-like  mind.  A  white  lily  was  not  mow 
pure  and  stainless  than  the  young  girl  who  sat  amid  the 
purple  heather,  sketching  the  white,  far-off  sails. 

So  intent  was  Lillian  upon  her  drawing  that  she  did  not 
hear  light,  rapid  steps  coming  near;  she  was  not  aroused 
until  a  rich  musical  voice  called,  "  Lillian,  if  you  have 
not  changed  into  stone  or  statue,  do  speak. "  Then,  look- 
ing  up,  she  saw  Beatrice  by  her  side. 

"  Lay  down  your  pencils  and  talk  to  me/'  said  Beatrice, 
imperiously.  "  How  unkind  of  you,  the  only  human  be- 
ing in  this  place  who  can  talk,  to  come  here  all  by  yourself! 
What  do  you  think  was  to  become  of  me?" 

'*  I  thought  you  were  reading  to  mamma,"  said  Lillian, 
quietly. 

"Reading!"  exclaimed  Beatrice.  "You  know  1  am 
tired  of  reading,  tired  of  writing,  tired  of  sewing,  tired  of 
everything  I  have  to  do." 

Lillian  looked  up  in  wonder  at  the  beautiful,  restless 
face. 

"  Do  not  look  '  good  '  at  me,"  said  Beatrice,  impatiently. 
'*  1  am  tired  to  death  of  it  all.  I  want  some  change.  Do 
you  think  any  girls  in  the  world  lead  such  lives  as  we  do- 
shut  up  in  a  rambling  old  farm-house,  studying  from  morn 
to  night;  shut  in.  on  one  side  by  that  tiresome  sea,  impris- 
oned on  the  other  by  fields  and  woods?  How  can  you  take 
it  so  quietly,  Lillian?  1  am  wearied  to  death." 

"  Something  has  disturbed  you  this  morning,"  said  Lil- 
lian, gently. 

"  That  is  like  mamma,"  cried  Beatrice;  "  just  her  very 
tone  and  words.  She  does  not  understand,  you  do  not  un- 
derstand; mamma's  life  satisfies  her,  your  life  contents  you; 
mine  does  not  content  me — it  is  all  vague  and  empty.  1 
should  welcome  anything  that  changed  this  monotony; 
even  sorrow  would  be  better  than  this  dead  level — one  day 
BO  like  another,  I  can  never  distinguish  them." 

"  My  dear  Beatrice,  think  of  what  you  are  saying,"  said 
Lillian. 

"  I  am  tired  of  thinking,"  said  Beatrice;  "for  tha  last 
ten  years  1  have  been  told  to  '  think '  and  'reflect.'  I 
have  thought  all  1  can;  I  want  a  fresh  subject" 

*  Think  how  beautiful  those  far-off  white  sails  look," 
Lillian — "  how  they  gleam  in  the  sunshine.  See,  that 


DORA    THORNE. 

one  looks  like  a  mysterious  baud  raised  to  beckon  us 
away." 

"Such  ideas  are  very  well  for  you,  Lillian,"  retorted 
Beatrice.  "  I  see  nothing  in  them.  Look  at  the  stories 
we  read;  how  different  those  girls  are  from  us!  They 
have  fathers,  brothers,  and  friends;  they  have  jewels  and 
dresses;  they  have  handsome  admirers,  who  pay  them 
homage;  they  dance,  ride,  and  enjoy  themselves.  Now 
look  at  us,  shut  up  here  with  old  and  serious  people." 

*'  Hush,  Beatrice/'  said  Lillian;    '  mamma  is  not  old." 

"  Not  in  years,  perhaps,"  replied  Beatrice;  "  but  she 
seems  to  me  old  in  sorrow.  She  is  never  gay  nor  light- 
hearted.  Mrs.  Vyvian  is  very  kind,  but  ehe  never  laughs. 
Is  every  one  sad  and  unhappy,  1  wonder?  Oh,  Lillian, 
I  long  to  see  the  world — the  bright,  gay  world — over  the 
sea  there.  1  long  for  it  as  an  imprisoned  bird  longs  for 
fresh  air  and  green  woods." 

"  You  would  not  find  it  all  happiness,"  said  Lillian, 
sagely. 

"  Spare  me  all  truism,"  cried  Beatrice.  '*  Ah,  sister,  I 
am  tired  of  all  this;  for  eleven  years  the  sea  has  been  sing- 
ing the  same  songs;  those  waves  rise  and  fall  as  they  did  a 
hundred  years  since;  the  birds  sing  the  same  story;  the  eun 
shines  the  same;  even  the  shadow  of  the  great  elms  fall 
over  the  meadow  just  as  it  did  when  we  first  played  there. 
I  long  to  away  from  the  sound  of  the  sea  and  the  rustling 
of  the  elm-trees.  1  want  to  be  where  there  are  girls  of  my 
own  age,  and  do  as  they  do.  It  seems  to  me  we  shall  go 
on  reading  and  writing,  sewing  and  drawing,  and  taking 
what  mamma  calls  instructive  rambles  until  our  heads 
grow  gray." 

"It  is  not  so  bad  as  that,  Beatrice,"  laughed  Lillian. 
"  Lady  Earle  says  papa  must  return  some  day;  then  we 
shall  all  go  to  him. " 

"  1  never  believe  one  word  of  it,"  said  Beatrice,  undaunt- 
edly. "  At  times  1  could  almost  declare  papa  himself  was 
a  myth.  Why  do  we  not  live  with  him?  Why  does  he 
write?-  We  never  hear  of  or  from  him,  save  through 
Karle;  besides,  Lillian,  what  do  you  think  I  heard 
M  rs.  Vyvian  say  once  to  grandmamma?  It  was  that  we 
might  not  go  to  Earlescourt  at  all — that  if  papa  did  not 
return,  or  died  y  >nng,  all  would  go  to  a  Mr.  Lionel  Dacre, 


104  DOHA    THORNE. 

and  we  should  remain  here.     Imagine  that  fate — living  e 
long  life  and  dying  at  the  Elms!" 

"It  is  all  conjecture,"  said  her  sister.  "  Try  to  be 
more  contented,  Beatrice.  We  do  not  make  our  own 
Jives;  we  have  not  the  control  of  our  own  destiny." 

".I  should  like  to  control  mine/'  sighed  Beatrice. 

*'  Try  to  be  contented,  darling,"  continued  the  sweet, 
pleading  voice.  "  We  all  love  and  admire  you.  No  onft 
was  ever  loved  more  dearly  or  better  than  you  are.  Thfe 
days  are  rather  long  at  times,  but  there  are  all  the  won- 
ders and  beauties  of  Nature  and  Art. " 

"  Nature  and  Art  are  all  very  well,"  cried  Beatrice; 
*'  but  give  me  life." 

She  turned  her  beautiful,  restless  face  from  the  smiling 
sea;  the  south  wind  dancing  over  the  yellow  gorse  caught 
up  the  words  uttered  in  that  clear,  musical  voice  and  car- 
ried them  over  the  cliff  to  one  who  was  lying  with  half- 
closed  eyes  under  the  shade  of  a  large  tree — a  young  man 
with  a  dark,  half-Spanish  face — handsome  with  a  coarse 
kind  of  beauty.  He  was  lying  there,  resting  upon  the  turf, 
enjoying  the  beauty  of  the  morning.  As  the  musical  voice 
reached  him,  and  the  strange  words  fell  upon  his  ear,  he 
smiled  and  raised  his  head  to  see  who  uttered  them.  He 
saw  the  young  girls,  but  their  faces  were  turned  from  him; 
those  words  rang  in  his  ears — "  Nature  and  Art  are  all 
very  well,  but  give  me  life." 

Who  was  it  longed  for  life?  He  understood  the  long- 
ing; he  resolved  to  wait  there  until  the  girls  went  away. 
Again  he  heard  the  same  voice. 

"  I  shall  leave  you  to  your  sails,  Lillian.  1  wish  those 
same  boats  would  come  to  carry  us  away — 1  wish  I  had 
wings  and  could  fly  over  the  sea  and  see  the  bright,  grand 
world  that  lies  beyond  it.  Good-bye;  I  am  tired  of  the 
never-ending  wash  of  those  long,  low  waves." 

He  saw  a  young  girl  rise  from  the  fragrant  heather  and 
turn  to  descend  the  cliff.  Quick  as  thought  he  rushed 
down  by  another  path,  and,  turning  back,  contrived  to 
meet  her  half-way.  Beatrice  came  singing  down  the  cliff. 
Her  humor,  never  the  same  ten  minutes  together,  had  sud- 
denly changed.  She  remembered  a  new  and  beautiful 
song  that  Lady  Earle  had  sent,  and  determined  to  go  homa 
and  try  it.  There  came  no  warning  to  her  that  bright 
summer  morning.  The  south  wind  lif tc  Iv.e  hair  from 


DORA    THORITE.  105 

her  brow  and  rafted  the  fragrance  of  hawtnorn  Duds  and 
spring  flower''  to  greet  her,  but  it  brought  DO  warning  mes- 
sage; the  birds  singing  gayly,  the  sun  shining  so  brightly 
could  not  tell  her  that  the  first  link  in  a  terrible  chain  was 
to  be  forged  that  morning. 

Half-way  down  the  cliff,  where  the  path  was  steep  and 
narrow,  Beatrice  suddenly  met  the  stranger.  A  stranger 
was  a  rarity  at  the  Elms.  Only  at  rare  intervals  did  ao 
artist  or  a  tourist  seek  shelter  and  hospitality  at  the  old 
farm-house.  The  stranger  seemed  to  be  a  gentleman. 
For  one  moment  both  stood  still;  then,  with  a  low  bow, 
the  gentleman  stepped  aside  to  let  the  young  girl  pass.  As 
he  did  so,  he  noted  the  rare  beauty  of  that  brilliant  face — 
he  remembered  the  longing  words. 

"  Mo  wonder/'  he  thought;  "  it  is  a  sin  for  such  a  face 
as  that  to  be  hidden  here." 

The  beauty  of  those  magnificent  eyes  startled  him. 
Who  was  she?  What  could  she  beadoiug  here?  Beatrice 
turning  again,  saw  the  stranger  looking  eagerly  after  her, 
with  profound  admiration  expressed  in  every  feature  of  his 
tace;  and  that  admiring  gaze,  the  first  she  had  ever  re- 
wived  in  her  life,  sunk  deep  into  the  vain,  girlish  heart. 

He  watqhed  the  graceful,  slender  figure  until  the  turn 
of  the  road  hid  Beatrice  from  his  view.  He  followed  her 
at  a  safe  distance,  and  saw  her  cross  the  long  meadows  that 
led  to  the  Elms.  Then  Hugh  Fernely  waited  with  patience 
until  one  of  the  farm  laborers  came  by.  By-  judicious 
questioning  he  discovered  much  of  the  history  of  the  beauti- 
ful young  girl  who  longed  for  life.  Her  face  haunted  him 
— its  brilliant,  queenly  beauty,  the  dark,  radiant  eyes. 
Come  what  might,  Hugh  Fernely  said  to  himself,  he  must 
see  her  again. 

On  the  following  morning  he  saw  the  girls  return  to  the 
clilT.  Lillian  finished  her  picture.  Ever  and  anon  he 
heard  Beatrice  singing,  in  a  low,  rich  voice,  a  song  that 
had  charmed  her  with  its  weird  beauty: 

"  For  men  must  work,  and  women  murt  weep — 
And  the  sooner  it's  over,  the  sooner  to  sleep— 
And  good-bye  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning." 

"1  like  those  words,  Lillian,"  he  heard  her  say.  *'  I 
wonder  how  soon  it  will  be  '  over  '  for  me.  Shall  I  ever 
weep,  as  the  song  says?  I  have  never  wept  yet" 


106  £K)RA    THORKE. 

This  morning  the  golden-haired  sister  left  the  cliff  first, 
and  Beatrice  sat  reading  until  the  noonday  sun  shone  upon 
the  sea.  Her  book  charmed  her;  it  was  a  story  telling  of 
the  life  she  loved  and  longed  for — of  the  gay,  glad  world. 
Unfortunately  all  the  people  in  the  book  were  noble, 
heroic,  and  ideal.  The  young  girl,  in  her  simplicity,  be- 
lieved that  they  who  lived  in  the  world  she  longed  for 
where  all  like  the  people  in  her  book. 

When  she  left  the  path  that  led  to  the  meadows,  she  saw 
by  her  side  the  stranger  who  had  met  her  the  day  before. 
Again  he  bowed  profoundly,  and,  with  many  well-expressed 
apologies,  asked  some  trifling  question  about  the  road. 

Beatrice  replied  briefly,  but  she  could  not  help  seeing 
the  wonder  of  admiration  in  his  face.  Her  own  grew  crim- 
son under  his  gaze — he  saw  it,  and  his  heart  beat  high 
with  triumph.  As  Beatrice  went  through  the  meadows  he 
walked  by  her  side.  She  never  quite  remembered  how  it 
happened,  but  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  telling  her  how 
many  years  had  passed  since  he  had  seen  the  spring  in 
England.  She  forgot  all  restraint,  all  prudence,  and 
raised  her  beautiful  eyes  to  his. 

"  Ah,  then,"  she  cried,  "  you  have  seen  the  great  world 
that  lies  over  the  wide  sea." 

"  Yes/'  he  replied,  "  I  have  seen  it.  I  have  been  in 
strange,  bright  lands,  so  different  from  England  that  they 
seemed  to  belong  to  another  world.  1  have  seen  many 
climes,  bright  skies,  and  glittering  seas,  where  the  spice 
Islands  lie. " 

As  he  spoke,  in  words  that  were  full  of  wild,  untutored 
eloquence,  he  saw  the  young  girFs  eyes  riveted  upon  him. 
Sure  of  having  roused  her  attention,  he  bowed,  apologized 
for  his  intrusion,  anl  left  her. 

Had  Dora  been  like  other  mothers,  Beatrice  would  have 
related  this  little  adventure  and  told  of  the  handsome  young 
traveler  who  had  been  in  strange  climes.  As  it  was,  know- 
ing her  mother's  utter  dread  of  all  men — her  fear  lest  her 
children  should  ever  love  and  marry— Beatrice  never 
named  the  subject.  She  thought  much  of  Hugh  Fernely 
— not  of  him  himself,  but  of  the  world  he  had  spoken  about 
— and  she  hoped  it  might  happen  to  her  to  meet  him  againt 

"If  we  had  some  one  here  who  could  talk  in  that  way," 
she  said  to  herself,  "  the  Elms  would  not  be  quite  so  in- 
supportable." 


DORA    THORJSTE.  107 

Two  days  afterward,  Beatrice,  wandering  on  the  sands, 
met  Hugh  Fernely.  She  saw  the  startled  look  of  delight 
on  his  face,  and  smiled  at  his  pleasure. 

"  Pray  forgive  me/*  he  said.  "  I — I  can  not  pass  you 
without  one  word.  Time  has  seemed  to  me  like  one  long 
night  since  1  saw  you  last." 

He  held  in  his  hand  some  beautiful  lilies  of  the  valley 
— every  little  white  waxen  bell  was  perfect.  He  offered 
them  to  her  with  a  low  bow. 

**  This  is  the  most  beautiful  flower  I  have  seen  for  many 
years,"  he  said.  "  May  I  be  forgiven  for  begging  permis- 
sion to  offer  it  to  the  most  beautiful  lady  I  have  ever  seen?" 

Beatrice  took  it  from  him,  blushing  at  his  words.  He 
walked  by  her  side  along  the  yellow  sands,  the  waves  roll- 
ing in  and  breaking  at  their  feet.  Again  his  eloquence 
charmed  her.  '  He  told  her  his  name,  and  how  he  was  cap- 
tain of  a  trading  vessel.  Instinctively  he  seemed  to  un- 
derstand her  character — her  romantic,  ideal  way  of  looking 
at  everything.  He  talked  to  her  of  the  deep  seas  and  their 
many  wonders;  of  the  ocean  said  to  be  fathomless;  of  the 
coral  islands  and  of  waters  in  whose  depths  the  oyster  con- 
taining the  pale,  gleaming  pearl  is  found;  of  the  quiet 
nights  spent  at  sea,  where  the  stars  shine  as  they  never 
sei-ni  to  shine  on  land;  of  the  strange  hush  that  falls  upon 
the  heaving  waters  before  a  storm.  He  told  of  long  daya 
when  they  were  becalmed  upon  the  green  deep,  when  the 
vessel  seemed 

"  A  painted  ship  upon  a  painted  ocean." 

With  her  marvelous  fancy  and  quick  imagination  she  fol- 
lowed him  to  the  wondrous  depth  of  silent  waters  where 
strange  shapes,  never  seen  by  human  eye,  abound.  She 
hung  upon  his  words;  he  saw  it,  and  rejoiced  in  his  suc- 
cess. He  did  not  startle  her  by  any  further  compliment, 
but  when  their  walk  was  ended  he  told  her  that  morning 
would  live  in  his  memory  as  the  happiest  time  of  his  life. 

After  a  few  days  it  seemed  to  become  a  settled  thing  that 
Beatrice  should  meet  Hugh  Fernely.  Lillian  wondered 
that  her  sister  so  often  preferred  lonely  rambles,  but  she 
saw  the  beautiful  face  she  loved  so  dearly  grow  brighter 
and  happier,  never  dreaming  the  cause 

For 'many  long  days  little  thought  oi  Hugh  Fernely  came 
to  Rvitriee.  Her  mind  ran  always  upon  **hat  he  had  told 


108  DORA    THORNE. 

her — upon  his  description  of  what  he  had  seen  and  heard. 
He  noted  this,  and  waited  with  a  patience  born  of  love  for 
the  time  when  she  should  take  an  interest  in  him. 

Words  were  weak  in  which  to  express  the  passionate  love 
he  felt  for  this  beautiful  and  stately  young  girl.  It  seemed 
to  him  like  a  fairy  tale.  On  the  morning  he  first  saw  Bea- 
trice he  had  been  walking  a  long  distance,  and  had  lain 
down  to  rest  on  the  cliffs.  There  the  beautiful  vision  had 
dawned  upon  him.  The  first  moment  he  gazed  into  that 
peerless  face  he  loved  Beatrice  with  a  passion  that  fright- 
ened himself.  He  determined  to  win  her  at  any  cost. 

At  last  and  by  slow  degrees  he  began  to  speak  of  her  and 
himself,  slowly  and  carefully,  his  keen  eyes  noting  every 
change  upon  her  face;  he  began  to  offer  her  delicate  com- 
pliments and  flattery  so  well  disguised  that  it  did  not  seem 
to  her  flattery  at  all.  He  made  her  understand  that  he  be- 
lieved her  to  be  the  most  beautiful  girl  he  had  ever  beheld. 
He  treated  her  always  as  though  she  were  a  queen,  and  he 
her  humblest  slave. 

Slowly  but  surely  the  sweet  poison  worked  its  way;  the 
day  came  when  that  graceful,  subtle  flattery  was  necessary 
to  the  very  existence  of  Beatrice  Earle.  There  was  much 
to  excuse  her;  the  clever,  artful  man  into  whose  hands  she 
had  fallen  was  her  first  admirer — the  first  who  seemed  to 
remember  she  was  no  longer  a  child,  and  to  treat  her  with 
deferential  attention.  Had  she  been,  as  other  girls  are, 
surrounded  by  friends,  accustomed  to  society,  properly 
trained,  prepared  by  the  tender  wisdom  of  a  loving  mother, 
she  would  never  have  cast  her  proud  eyes  upon  Hugh 
Feruely;  she  would  never  have  courted  the  danger  or  run 
th«  risk. 

As  it  was,  while  Dora  preferred  solitude,  and  nourished 
a  keen  dislike  to  her  husband  in  her  heart — while  Ronald 
yielded  to  obstinate  pride,  and  neglected  every  duty — while 
both  preferred  the  indulgence  of  their  own  tempers,  and 
neglected  the  children  the  Almighty  intrusted  to  them, 
Beatrice  went  on  to  her  fate. 

It  was  so  sad  a  story,  the  details  so  simple  yet  so  pitiful. 
Every  element  of  that  impulsive,  idealistic  nature  helped 
on  the  tragedy.  Hugh  Fernely  understood  Beatrice  as 

Eerhaps  no  one  else  ever  did.     He  idealized  himself.     To 
er  at  length  he  became  a  hero  who  had  met  with  number- 
less adventures — a  hero   who  had  traveled  and  fought, 


DORA    THOK2JE.  109 

brave  arid  generous.  After  a  time  he  spoke  to  her  of  love, 
at  first  never  appearing  to  suppose  that  she  could  care  for 
him,  but  telling  her  of  his  own  passionate  worship — how 
her  face  haunted  him,  filled  his  dreams  at  night,  and  shone 
before  him  all  day — how  the  very  ground  she  stood  upon 
was  sacred  to  him — how  he  envied  the  flowers  she  touched 
— how  he  would  give  up  everything  to  be  the  rose  that  died 
in  her  hands.  It  was  all  very  pretty  and  poetical,  and  he 
knew  how  to  find  pretty,  picturesque  spots  in  the  woods 
where  the  birds  and  the  flowers  helped  him  to  tell  his  story. 

Beatrice  found  it  very  pleasant  to  be  worshiped  like  a 
queen;  there  was  no  more  monotony  for  her.  Every 
morning  she  looked  forward  to  seeing  Hugh— to  learning 
more  of  those  words  that  seemed  to  her  like  sweetest  music. 
She  knew  that  at  some  time  or  other  during  the  day  she 
would  see  him;  he  never  tired  of  admiring  her  beauty. 
Blameworthy  was  the  sad  mother  with  her  stern  doctrines, 
blameworthy  the  proud,  neglectful  father,  that  she  knew 
not  how  wrong  all  this  was.  He  loved  her;  in  a  thousand 
eloquent  ways  he  told  her  so.  She  was  his  loadstar,  beauti- 
ful :ind  peerless.  It  was  far  more  pleasant  to  sit  on  the 
sea-shore,  or  under  the  greenwood  trees,  listening  to  such 
words  than  to  pass  long,  dreary  hours  in-doors.  And 
none  of  those  intrusted  with  the  care  of  the  young  girl  ever 
dreamed  of  her  danger. 

So  this  was  the  love  her  mother  dreaded  so  much.  This 
was  the  love  poets  sung  of  and  novelists  wrote  about.  It 
was  pleasant;  but  in  after-days,  when  Beatrice  herself 
came  to  love,  she  know  that  this  had  been  but  child's  play. 

it  was  the  romance  of  the  stolen  meeting  that,  charmed 
Beatrice.  If  Hugh  had  been  admitted  to  the  Elms  she 
would  have  wearied  of  him  in  a  week;  but  the  concealment 
gave  her  something  to  think  of.  There  was  something  to 
occupy  her  mind;  every  day  she  must  arrange  for  a  long 
ramble,  so  that  she  might  meet  Hugh.  So,  while  the  corn 
grew  ripe  in  the  fields,  and  the  blossoms  died  away — while 
warm,  luxurious  summer  ruled  with  his  golden  wand— 
Ronald  Earle's  daughter  went  on  to  her  fate. 


CHAFIER  XVI II. 

AT  length  there  mtin'  an  ii-icrruption  to  Hugh  Fernely's 
love-dream.     The  time  drew  near  when  li    must  leave  Sea* 


110  DOEA    THOBNB. 

bay.  The  vessel  he  commanded  was  bound  for  China,  and 
was  to  sail  in  a  few  days.  The  thought  that  he  must  leave 
the  beautiful  girl  he  loved  so  dearly  and  so  deeply  struck 
him  with  unendurable  pain;  he  seemed  only  to  have  lived 
sJnce  he  had  met  her,  and  he  knew  that  life  without  her 
•would  be  a  burden  too  great  for  him  to  bear.  He  asked 
himself  a  hundred  times  over:  "  Does  she  love  me?"  He 
could  not  tell.  He  resolved  to  try.  He  dared  not  look 
that  future  in  the  face  which  should  take  her  from  him. 

The  time  drew  near;  the  day  was  settled  on  which  the 
"  Seagull  "  was  to  set  sail,  and  yet  Hugh  Fernely  had  won 
no  promise  from  Beatrice  Earle. 

One  morning  Hugh  met  her  at  the  stile  leading  from 
the  field  into  the  meadow  lane  —the  prettiest  spot  in  Knuts- 
ford.  The  ground  was  a  perfectly  beautiful  carpet  of  flow- 
ers— wild  hyacinths,  purple  foxgloves,  pretty,  pale  straw- 
berry blossoms  all  grew  there.  The  hedges  were  one  mass 
of  wild  roses  and  woodbine;  the  tall  elm-trees  that  ran  along 
the  lane  met  shadily  overhead;  the  banks  on  either  side 
were  radiant  in  different  colored  mosses;  huge  ferns  sur- 
rounded the  roots  of  the  trees. 

Beatrice  liked  the  quiet,  pretty,  green  meadow  lana 
She  often  walked  there,  and  on  this  eventful  morning  Hugh 
saw  her  sitting  in  the  midst  of  the  fern  leaves.  He  was  by 
her  side  in  a  minute,  and  his  dark,  handsome  face  lighted 
up  with  joy. 

"  How  the  sun  shines!"  he  said.  "  I  wonder  the  birds 
begin  to  sing  and  the  flowers  to  bloom  before  you  are  out, 
Miss  Earle/' 

"  But  1  am  not  their  sun,"  replied  Beatrice  with  a  smile. 

"  But  you  are  mine,"  cried  Hugh;  and  before  she  could 
reply  he  was  kneeling  at  her  feet,  her  hands  clasped  in  his, 
while  he  told  her  of  the  love  that  was  wearing  his  life  away. 

No  one  could  listen  to  such  words  unmoved;  they  were 
true  and  eloquent,  full  of  strange  pathos.  He  told  her 
how  dark  without  her  the  future  would  be  to  him,  how  sad 
and  weary  his  life;  whereas  if  she  would  only  love  him,  and 
let  him  claim  her  when  be  returned,  he  would  make  her  as 
happy  as  a  queen.  He  would  take  her  to  the  bright  sunny 
lands— would  show  her  all  the  beauties  and  wonders  she 
longed  to  see — would  buy  her  jewels  and  dresses  such  ai 
her  beauty  deserved — would  be  her  humble,  devoted  slave, 
if  she  would  onlY  love  hiirv 


DOEA    THOBNE.  Ill 

It  was  very  pleasant — the  bright  morning,  the  picturesque 
glade,  the  warmth  and  brightness  of  summer  all  around. 
Beatrice  looked  at  the  handsome,  pale  face  with  emotion, 
she  felt  Hugh's  warm  lips  pressed  to  her  hand,  she  felt  hot 
tears  rain  upon  her  fingers,  and  wondered  at  such  love. 
Yes,  this  was  the  love  she  had  read  of  and  thought  about. 

"  Beatrice/'  cried  Hugh,  "  do  not  undo  me  with  one 
word.  Say  you  love  me,  my  darling — say  I  may  return, 
and  claim  you  as  my  own.  Your  whole  life  shall  be  like 
one  long,  bright  summer's  day. " 

She  was  carried  away  by  the  burning  torrent  of  passion- 
ate words.  With  all  her  spirit  and  pride  she  felt  weak  and 
powerless  before  the  mighty  love  of  this  strong  roan.  Al- 
most unconscious  of  what  she  did,  Beatrice  laid  her  white 
hands  upon  the  dark,  handsome  head  of  her  lover. 

'*  Hush,  Hugh,"  she  said,  "  you  frighten  me.  1  do  love 
you;  see,  your  tears  wet  my  hand." 

It  was  not  a  very  enthusiastic  response,  but  it  satisfied 
him.  He  clasped  the  young  girl  in  his  arms,  and  she  did 
not  resist;  he  kissed  the  proud  lips  and  the  flushed  cheek. 
Beatrice  Earle  said  no  word;  she  was  half  frightened,  half 
touched,  and  wholly  subdued. 

"  Now  you  are  mine/'  cried  Hugh — "  mine,  my  own 
peerless  one;  nothing  shall  part  us  but  death!" 

**  Hush!"  cried  Beatrice,  again  shuddering  as  with  cold 
fear.  "  That  is  a  word  I  dislike  and  dread  so  much,  Hugh 
— do  not  use  it." 

"  I  will  not/'  he  replied;  and  then  Beatrice  forgot  her 
fears.  He  was  so  happy — he  loved  her  so  dearly — he  was 
BO  proud  of  winniug  her.  She  listened  through  the  long 
hours  of  that  sunny  morning.  It  was  the  fifteenth  of  July 
— he  made  her  note  the  day — and  in  two  years  he  would  re- 
turn to  take  her  forever  from  the  quiet  house  where  her 
beauty  and  grace  alike  were  buried. 

That  was  the  view  of  the  matter  that  had  seized  upon 
the  girl's  imagination.  It  was  not  so  much  love  for  Hugh 
— she  liked  him.  His  flattery — the  excitement  of  meeting 
him — his  love,  had  become  necessary  to  her;  but  had  any 
other  means  of  escape  from  the  monotony  she  hated  pre- 
sented itself,  she  would  have  availed  herself  of  it  quite  as 
eagerly.  Hugh  was  not  so  much  a  lover  to  her  as  a 
medium  of  escape  from  a  life  that  daily  became  more  and 
more  unendurable. 


DOHA    THORNE. 

She  listened  with  bright  smiles  when  he  told  her  that;  in 
two  years  he  should  return  to  fetch  her;  and  she,  thinking 
much  of  the  romance,  and  little  of  the  dishonor  of  conceal- 
ment, told  him  how  her  sad  young  mother  hated  and 
dreaded  all  mention  of  love  and  lovers. 

"  Then  you  must  never  tell  her,"  he  said — "  leave  thai 
for  me  until  I  return.  I  shall  have  money  then,  and  per- 
haps the  command  of  a  fine  vessel.  She  will  not  refuse 
me  when  she  knows  how  dearly  1  love  you,  and  even  should 
your  father — the  father  you  tell  of — come  home,  you  will 
be  true  to  me,  Beatrice,  will  you  not?" 

"  Yes,  I  will  be  true,"  she  replied — and,  to  do  her 
justice,  she  meant  it  at  the  time.  Her  father's  return 
seemed  vague  and  uncertain;  it  might  take  place  in  ten  or 
twenty  years — it  might  never  be.  Hugh  offered  her  free- 
dom and  liberty  in  two  years. 

'*  If  others  should  seek  your  love,"  he  said,  "  should 
praise  your  beauty,  and  offer  you  rank  or  wealth,  you  will 
say  to  yourself  that  you  will  be  true  to  Hugh?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said, 'firmly,  "  I  will  do  so." 

"  Two  years  will  soon  pass  away,"  said  he.  "  Ah, 
Beatrice,"  he  continued,  "I  shall  leave  you  next  Thurs- 
day; give  me  all  the  hours  you  can.  Once  away  from  you, 
all  time  will  seem  to  me  a  long,  dark  night." 

It  so  happened  that  the  farmer  and  his  men  were  at 
work  in  a  field  quite  on  the  other  side  of  Knutsford.  Dora 
and  Lillian  were  intent,  the  one  upon  a  box  of  books  newly 
arrived,  the  other  upon  a  picture;  so  Beatrice  had  every 
day  many  hours  at  her  disposal.  She  spent  them  all  with 
Hugh,  whose  love  seemed  to  increase  with  every  moment. 

Hugh  was  to  leave  Seabay  on  Thursday,  and  on  Wednes- 
day evening  he  lingered  by  her  side  as  though  he  could  not 
part  with  her.  To  do  Hugh  Fernely  justice,  he  loved  Bea- 
trice for  herself.  Had  she  been  a  penniless  beggar  he 
would  have  loved  her  just  the  same.  The  only  dark  cloud 
in  his  sky  was  the  knowledge  that  she  was  far  above  him. 
Still,  he  argued  to  himself,  the  story  she  told  of  her  father 
was  an  impossible  one.  He  did  not  believe  that  Ronald 
Earle  would  ever  take  his  daughters  home — he  did  not 
quite  know  what  to  think,  but  he  had  no  fear  on  that  score. 

On  the  Wednesday  evening  they  wandered  down  the  cliff 
and  sat  upon  the  shore,  watching  the  sun  set  over  the 
waters.  Hugh  took  from  his  pocket  a  little  morocco  case 


DORA    THORNE.  '113 

tod  placed  it  in  Beatrice's  hands.  She  opened  it,  and  cried 
out  with  admiration;  there  lay  the  most  exquisite  ring  she 
had  ever  seen,  of  pure  pale  gold,  delicately  and  elaborately 
chased,  and  set  with  three  gleaming  opals  of  rare  beauty. 

"  Look  at  the  motto  inside,"  said  Hugh. 

She  held  the  ring  in  her  dainty  white  fingers,  and  read: 
**  Until  death  parts  us." 

*'  Oh,  Hugh,"  she  cried,  "  that  word  again?  I  dread 
it;  why  is  it  always  coming  before  me?" 

He  smiled  at  her  fears,  and  asked  her  to  let  him  place 
the  ring  upon  her  finger. 

*'  In  two  years,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  place  a  plain  gold 
ring  on  this  beautiful  hand.  Until  then  wear  this,  Bea- 
trice, for  my  sake;  it  is  our  betrothal-ring." 

"  It  shall  not  leave  my  finger,"  she  said.  "  Mamma 
will  not  notice  it,  and  every  one  else  will  think  she  haa 
given  it  to  me  herself. " 

"  And  now,"  said  Hugh,  "  promise  me  once  more,  Bea- 
trice, you  will  be  true  to  me — you  will  wait  for  me — that 
when  I  return  you  will  let  me  claim  you  as  my  own?" 

"  I  do  promise,"  she  said,  looking  at  the  sun  shining  on 
the  opals. 

Beatrice  never  forgot  the  hour  that  followed.  Proud, 
impetuous,  and  imperial  as  she  was,  the  young  man's  lovo 
and  sorrow  touched  her  as  nothing  had  ever  done.  The 
sunbeams  died  away  in  the  west,  the  glorious  mass  of  tinted 
clouds  fell  like  a  veil  over  the  evening  sky,  the  waves  came 
in  rapidly,  breaking  into  sheets  of  white,  creamy  foam  in 
tin-  gathering  darkness,  but  still  he  could  not  leave  her. 

"  1  must  go,  Hugh,"  said  Beatrice,  at  length;  "  mam- 
ma will  miss  me." 

She  never  forgot  the  wistful  eyes  lingering  upon  her  face. 

"  Once  more,  only  once  more,"  he  said.  '*  Beatrice, 
n iy  love,  when  1  return  you  will  be  my  wife?" 

"  Yes/'  she  replied,  startled  alike  by  his  grief  and  hia 
love. 

"  Never  be  false  to  me,"  he  continued.  "  If  you 
were — " 

"  What  then?"  she  asked,  with  a  smile,  as  ho  paused. 

"  I  should  either  kill  myself  or  you,"  he  replied,  "  per- 
hajK  both.  Do  not  make  me  say  such  terrible  things.  It 
could  not  be.  The  sun  may  fall  from  the  heavens,  the  sea 
rolling  there  may  become  dry  land.  Xatun  thing 


114.  DORA    THOKNE. 

—may  prove  lalse,  but  not  you,  the  noblest,  the  truest  of 
women.  Say  '  I  love  you,  Hugh/  and  let  those  be  your 
last  words  to  me.  They  will  go  with  me  over  the  wide 
ocean,  and  be  my  rest  and  stay." 

"  I  love  you,  Hugh,"  she  said,  as  he  wished  her. 

Something  like  a  deep,  bitter  sob  came  from  his  white 
^ips.  Death  itself  would  have  been  far  easier  than  leaving 
ner.  He  raised  her  beautiful  face  to  his — his  tears  and 
kisses  seemed  to  burn  it — and  then  he  was  gone. 

Gone!  The  romance  of  the  past  few  weeks,  the  engross- 
ing interest,  all  suddenly  collapsed.  To-morrow  the  old 
monotonous  life  must  begin  again,  without  flattery,  praise, 
or  love.  He  had  gone;  the  whole  romance  was  ended; 
nothing  of  it  remained  save  the  memory  of  his  love  and  the 
ring  upon  her  finger. 

At  first  there  fell  upon  Beatrice  a  dreadful  blank.  The 
monotony,  the  quiet,  the  simple  occupations,  were  more 
unendurable  than  ever;  but  in  a  few  days  that  feeling  wore 
off,  and  then  she  began  to  wonder  at  what  she  had  done. 
The  glamour  fell  from  before  her  eyes;  the  novelty  and  ex- 
citement, the  romance  of  the  stolen  meetings,  the  pleasant 
homage  of  love  and  worship  no  longer  blinded  her.  Ah, 
and  before  Hugh  Feruely  had  been  many  days  and  nights 
upon  the  wide  ocean,  she  ended  by  growing  rather  ashamed 
of  the  matter,  and  trying  to  think  of  it  as  little  as  she 
could!  Once  she  half  tried  to  tell  Lillian;  but  the  look  of 
horror  on  the  sweet,  pure  face  startled  her,  and  she  turned 
the  subject  by  some  merry  jest. 

Then  there  came  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Vyvian  announcing 
her  return.  The  girls  were  warmly  attached  to  the  lady, 
who  had  certainly  devoted  the  ten  best  years  of  her  life  to 
them.  She  brought  with  her  many  novelties,  new  books, 
new  music,  amusing  intelligence  from  the  outer  world. 
For  some  days  there  was  no  lack  of  excitement  and  amuse- 
ment; then  all  fell  again  into  the  old  routine. 

Mrs.  Vyvian  saw  a  great  change  in  Beatrice.  Some  of 
the  old  impetuosity  had  died  away;  she  was  as  brilliant  as 
ever,  full  of  life  and  gayety,  but  in  some  way  there  was  an 
indescribable  change.  At  times  a  strange  calm  would 
come  over  the  beautiful  face,  a  far-off,  dreamy  expression 
steal  into  the  dark,  bright  eyes.  She  had  lost  her  old 
frankness.  Time  was  when  Mrs.  Vyvian  could  read  all  her 
thoughts,  and  very  rebellious  thoughts  they  often  were. 


DORA  THOENE.  115 

But  now  there  seemed  to  be  a  sealed  chamber  in  the  girl's 
heart.  She  never  spoke  of  the  future,  and  for  the  first 
time  her  watchful  friend  saw  in  her  a  nervous  fear  that 
distressed  her.  Carefully  and  cautiously  the  governess  tried 
to  ascertain  the  cause;  she  felt  sure  at  last  that,  young  as 
she  was,  carefully  as  she  had  been  watched,  Beatrice  Earle 
had  a  secret  in  her  life  that  she  shared  with  no  one  else. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THERE  were  confusion  and  dismay  in  the  stately  home 
of  the  Earles.  One  sultry  morning  in  August  Lord  Earle 
went  out  into  the  garden,  paying  no  heed  to  the  excessive 
heat.  As  he  did  not  return  to  luncheon,  the  butler  went 
in  search  of  him  and  found  his  master  lying  as  one  dead  on 
the  ground.  He  was  carried  to  his  own  room,  doctors  were 
summoned  in  hot  haste  from  far  and  near;  everything  that 
science  or  love,  skill  or  wisdom  could  suggest  was  done  for 
him,  but  all  in  vain.  The  hour  had  come  when  he  must 
leave  home,  rank,  wealth,  position — whatever  he  valued 
most — when  he  must  answer  for  his  life  and  what  he  had 
done  with  it — when  he  must  account  for  wealth,  talent, 
for  the  son  given  to  him — when  human  likings,  human 
passions,  would  seem  so  infinitely  little. 

But  while  Lord  Earle  lay  upon  the  bed,  pale  and  uncon- 
scious, Lady  Earle,  who  knelt  by  him  and  never  left  him, 
felt  sure  that  his  mind  and  heart  were  both  active.  He 
could  not  speak;  he  did  not  seem  to  understand.  Who 
knows  what  passes  in  those  dread  moments  of  silence,  when 
the  light  of  eternity  shows  so  clearly  all  that  we  have  done 
in  the  past  ?  It  may  be  that  while  he  lay  there,  hovering 
as  it  were  between  two  worlds,  the  remembrance  of  his  son 
struck  him  like  a  two  edged  sword — his  son,  his  onlychild 
given  to  him  to  train,  not  only  for  earth  but  for  heaven — 
the  boy  he  had  loved  and  idolized,  then  cast  off,  and  al- 
lowed to  become  a  wanderer  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  It 
may  be  that  his  stern,  sullen  pride,  his  imperious  self-will, 
his  resolute  trampling  upon  the  voice  of  nature  and  duty, 
confronted  him  in  the  new  light  shining  upon  him.  Per- 
haps his  own  words  returned  to  him,  that  until  he  lay  dead 
Ronald  should  never  see  Earlescourt  again  ;  for  suddenly 
the  voice  they  thought  hushed  forever  sounded  strangely 
in  the  silence  of  that  death-chamber. 


i!6  DORA    THORNE. 

"  My  son!*'  cried  the  dying  man,  clasping  his  hands—. 
"  my  son!" 

Those  who  saw  it  never  forgot  the  blank,  awful  terror 
that  came  upon  the  dying  face  as  he  uttered  his  last  words. 

They  bore  the  weeping  wife  from  the  room.  Lady 
Earle,  strong  and  resolute  though  she  was,  could  not  drive 
that  scene  from  her  mind.  She  was  ill  for  many  days,  and 
so  it  happened  that  the  lord  of  Earlescourt  was  laid  in  tht 
family  vault  long  ere  the  family  at  the  Elms  knew  of  the 
change  awaiting  them. 

Ronald  was  summoned  home  in  all  haste;  but  months 
passed  ere  letters  reached  him,  and  many  more  before  he 
returned  to  England. 

Lord  Earle's  will  was  brief,  there  was  no  mention  of  his 
son's  name.  There  was  a  handsome  provision  for  Lady 
Earle,  the  pretty  little  estate  of  Roslyu  was  settled  uporr 
'her;  the  servants  received  numerous  legacies;  Sir  Harry 
Laurence  and  Sir  Hugh  Charteris  were  each  to  receive  a 
magnificent  mourning-ring;  but  there  was  no  mention  of 
the  once-loved  son  and  heir. 

As  the  heir  at  law,  everything  was  Ronald's — the  large 
amount  of  money  the  late  lord  had  saved,  title,  estates, 
everything  reverted  to  him.  But  Ronald  would  have  ex- 
changed all  for  one  line  of  forgiveness,  one  word  of  pardon 
from  the  father  he  had  never  ceased  to  love. 

It  was  arranged  that  until  Ronald's  return  his  mother 
should  continue  to  reside  at  Earlescourt,  and  the  manage- 
ment of  the  estates  was  intrusted  to  Mr.  Burt,  the  family 
solicitor. 

Lady  Earle  resolved  to  go  to  the  Elms  herself;  great 
changes  must  be  made  there.  Ronald's  wife  and  children 
must  take  their  places  in  the  world;  and  she  felt  a  proud 
satisfaction  in  thinking  that,  thanks  to  her  sensible  and 
judicious  management,  Dora  would  fill  her  future  position 
with  credit.  She  anticipated  Ronald's  delight  when  he 
should  see  his  beautiful  and  accomplished  daughters.  De- 
spite her  great  sorrow,  the  lady  of  Earlescourt  felt  some 
degree  of  hope  for  the  future.  She  wrote  to  the  Elms,  tell- 
ing Dora  of  her  husband's  death,  and  announcing  her  own 
coming;  then  the  little  household  understood  that  their 
quiet  and  solitude  had  ended  forever. 

The  first  thing  was  to  provide  handsome  mourning. 
Dora  was  strangely  quiet  and  sad  through  it  all.  The  girls 


DORA    THORNE.  11? 

asked  a  hundred  questions  about  their  father,  whom  they 
longed  to  see.  They  knew  he  had  left  home  in  conse- 
quence of  some  quarrel  with  his  father — so  much  Lady 
Earle  told  them — but  they  never  dreamed  that  his  mar- 
riage had  caused  the  fatal  disagreement;  they  never  knew 
that,  for  their  mother's  sake,  Lady  Earle  carefully  con- 
cealed all  knowledge  of  it  from  them. 

L;i  ly  Earle  reached  the  Elms  one  evening  in  the  begin- 
ning of  September.  She  asked  first  to  see  Dora  alone. 

During  the  long  years  Dora  had  grown  to  love  the  state- 
ly, gentle  lady  who  was  Ronald's  mother.  She  could  not 
resist  her  sweet,  gracious  dignity  and  winning  manners. 
So,  when  Lady  Earle,  before  seeing  her  granddaughters, 
went  to  Dora's  room,  wishing  for  a  long  consultation  with 
her,  Dora  received  her  with  gentle,  reverential  affection. 

"  1  wish  to  see  you  first,"  said  Lady  Helena  Earle,  "  so 
that  we  may  arrange  our  plans  before  the  children  know, 
anything  of  them.     Ronald  will  return  to  England  in  a 
few  months.     Dora,  what  course  shall  you  adopt?" 

"  None,"  she  replied.  "  Your  son's  return  has  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  me." 

"But,  surely,"  said  Lady  Helena,  "for  the  children's 
Bake  you  will  not  refuse  at  least  an  outward  show  of  rec- 
onciliation?" 

"  Mr.  Earle  has  not  asked  it,"  said  Dora — "he  never 
will  do  so,  Lady  Helena.  It  is  as  far  from  his  thoughts  as 
from  mine." 

Lady  Earle  sat  for  some  moments  too  much  astounded 
for  speech. 

"  1  never  inquired  the  cause  of  your  separation,  Dora," 
she  said,  gently,  "  and  I  never  wish  to  know  it.  Mv  sou 
told  me  you  could  live  together  no  longer.  I  loved  my 
own  husband;  I  was  a  devoted  and  affectionate  wife  to  him. 
1  bore  with  his  faults  and  loved  his  virtues,  so  that  1  can 
not  imagine  what  1  should  do  were  I  in  your  place.  I  say 
to  you  what  I  should  say  to  Ronald — they  are  solemn 
wor.ls — *  What  therefore  God  hath  joined  together,  let  no 
man  put  asunder.'  Now  let  me  tell  you  my  opinion.  It 
is  this,  that  nothing  can  justify  such  a  separation  as  yours 
— nothing  but  the  most  outrageous  offenses  or  the  most 
barbarous  cruelty.  Take  the  right  course,  Dora;  submit 
•:tr  husband.  Believe  nu»,  woman's  rights  are  all  fancy 
and  nonsense;  loving,  gentle  submission  is  the  fairest  orna- 


US  DORA    THOBtfE. 

ment  of  woman.  Even  should  Ronald  be  in  the  wrong, 
trample  upon  all  pride  and  temper,  and  make  the  first  ad- 
vances to  him." 

"  I  can  not,"  said  Dora,  gravely. 

"  Ronald  was  always  generous  and  chivalrous,"  contin* 
ned  Lady  Earle.  "  Oh,  Dora,  have  you  forgotten  how  my 
ooy  gave  up  all  the  world  for  you?" 

"  No,"  she  replied,  bitterly;  "  nor  has  he  forgotten  it, 
Lady  Earle." 

The  remembrance  of  what  she  thought  her  wrongs  rosa 
visibly  before  her.  She  saw  again  the  magnificent  face  of 
Valentine  Charteris,  with  its  calm,  high-bred  wonder.  She 
saw  her  husband's  white,  angry,  indignant  countenance — 
gestures  full  of  unutterable  contempt.  Ah,  no,  never 
again!  Nothing  could  heal  that  quarrel. 

"  You  must  take  your  place  in  the  world,"  continued 
Lady  Earle.  ' '  You  are  no  longer  simply  Mrs.  Earle  of 
the  Elms:  you  are  Lady  Earle,  of  Earlescourt,  wife  of  its 
lord,  the  mother  of  his  children.  You  have  duties  too 
numerous  for  me  to  mention,  and  you  must  not  shrink 
from  them." 

"  I  refuse  all/*  she  replied,  calmly;  "  I  refuse  to  share 
your  son's  titles,  his  wealth,  his  position,  his  duties;  I  re- 
fuse to  make  any  advances  toward  a  reconciliation;  I  refuse 
to  be  reconciled." 

"  And  why?"  asked  Lady  Helena,  gravely. 

A  proud  flush  rose  to  Dora's  face — hot  auger  stirred  in 
her  heart 

"  Because  your  son  said  words  to  me  that  1  never  can 
and  never  will  forget,"  she  cried.  "  1  did  wrong — Lady 
Helena,  I  was  mad,  jealous,  blind — I  did  wrong — I  did 
what  1  now  know  to  be  dishonorable  and  degrading.  1 
knew"  no  better,  and  he  might  have  pardoned  me,  remem- 
bering that.  Bat  before  the  woman  I  believe  to  be  my 
rival  he  bitterly  regretted  having  made  me  his  wife." 

"  They  were  hard  words,"  said  Lady  Earle. 

**  Very  hard,"  replied  Dora;  "  they  broke  my  heart — 
they  slew  me  in  my  youth;  I  have  never  lived  since  then." 

"  Can  you  never  forgive  and  forget  them,  Dora?"  asked 
Lady  Helena. 

"  Never,"  she  replied;  "  they  are  burned  into  my  heart 
and  on  njy  brain.  I,  shall  never  forget  them;  your  son  and 
1  must  be  strangers,  Lady  Earle,  while  we  live." 


DORA    THORNB.  119 

"  1  can  say  no  more,"  sighed  Lady  Earle.  "  Perhaps  a 
mightier  voice  will  call  to  you,  Dora,  and  then  you  will 
obey. " 

A  deep  silence  fell  upon  them.  Lady  Helena  was  more 
grieved  and  disconcerted  than  she  cared  to  own.  She  had 
thought  of  taking  her  son's  wife  and  children  home  in  tri- 
umph, but  it  was  not  to  be. 

Shall  we  speak  of  the  children  now?"  she  asked  at 
length.  "  Some  arrangements  must  be  made  for  them." 
Yes."  said  Dora,  '*  their  father  has  claims  upon  them. 
I  am  ready  to  yield  to  them.  I  do  not  believe  he  will  erer 
love  them  or  care  for  them,  because  they  are  mine.  At 
the  same  time,  I  give  them  up  to  him  and  to  you,  Lady 
Earle.  The  sweetest  and  best  years  of  their  lives  have  been 
spent  with  me;  1  must  therefore  not  repine.  I  have  but 
one  stipulation  to  make,  and  it  is  that  my  children  shall 
never  hear  one  word  against  me." 

44  You  know  little  of  me,"  said  Lady  Helena,  "  if  you 
think  such  a  thing  is  possible.  You  would  rather  part 
with  your  children  than  accompany  them?" 

44  Far  rather,"  she  replied.  '4 1  know  you  will  jllow 
them  to  visit  me,  Lady  Earle.  I  have  known  for  many 
rears  that  such  a  time  must  come,  and  I  am  prepared  for 
it." 

"  But,  my  dear  Dora,"  said  Lady  Earle,  warmly,  "  have 
you  considered  what  parting  with  your  children  implies — 
the  solitude,  the  desolation?" 

44 1  know  it  all,"  replied  Dora.  "  It  will  be  hard,  but 
not  so  hard  nor  so  bitter  as  living  under  the  same  roof  with 
tht'ir  father. " 

Carefully  and  quietly  Dora  listened  to  Lady  Earle's  plans 
and  arrangements — how  her  children  were  to  go  to  Earles- 
court  and  take  the  position  belonging  to  them.  Mrs.  Vyv- 
ian  was  to  go  with  them  and  remain  until  Lord  Eurle  re- 
turned. Until  then  they  were  not  to  be  introduced  into 
society;  it  would  take  some  time  to  accustom  them  to  so 
great  a  change.  When  Lord  Earle  returned  he  could  pur- 
sue what  course  he  would. 

"lie  will  be  so  proud  of  them!"  said  Lady  Earle.  "  I 
bave  never  seen  a  girl  so  spirited  and  beautiful  as  Beatrice, 
nor  one  so  fair  and  gentle  as  Lillian.  Oh,  Dora,  I  should 
be  happy  if  you  were  going  with  us." 

•  few  days  of  busy  preparation  did 


120  DORA    THORNS. 

Dora's  proud  courage  give  way.  The  girls  at  first  refused 
to  leave  her;  they  exhausted  themselves  in  conjectures  as 
.to  her  continued  residence  at  the  Elms,  and  were  forced  to 
be  satisfied  with  Lady  Earle's  off-hand  declaration  that  their 
mother  could  not  endure  any  but  a  private  life. 

"  Mamma  has  a  title  now,"  said  Beatrice,  wonderingly; 
"  why  will  she  not  assume  it?" 

"Your  mother's  tastes  are  simple  and  plain,"  replied 
Lady  Earle.  "  Her  wishes  must  be  treated  with  respect/' 

Dora  did  not  give  way  until  the  two  fair  faces  that  had 
brightened  her  house  vanished.  When  they  were  gone, 
and  a  strange,  hushed  silence  fell  upon  the  place,  pride 
and  courage  gave  way.  In  that  hour  the  very  bitterness  of 
death  seemed  to  be  upon  her. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

IT  was  a  proud  moment  for  Lady  Earle  when  she  led  the 
two  young  girls  through  the  long  line  of  servants  assembled 
to  receive  them.  They  were  both  silent  from  sheer  won- 
der. They  had  left  Florence  at  so  early  an  age  that  they 
had  not  the  faintest  remembrance  of  the  pretty  villa  on  the 
banks  of  the  Arno.  All  their  ideas  were  centered  in  the 
Elms — they  had  never  seen  any  other  home. 

Lady  Earle  watched  the  different  effect  produced  upon 
them  by  the  glimpse  of  Earlescourt.  Lillian  grew  pale; 
she  trembled,  and  her  wondering  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
Beatrice,  ou  the  contrary,  seemed  instantly  to  take  in  the 
spirit  of  the  place.  Her  face  flushed;  a  proud  light  came 
into  her  glorious  eyes;  her  haughty  head  was  carried  more 
regally  than  ever.  There  was  no  timidity,  no  shyly  ex- 
pressed wonder,  no  sensitive  shrinking  from  new  and  un- 
accustomed splendor. 

They  were  deeply  impressed  with  the  magnificence  of 
their  new  home.  For  many  long  days  Lady  Earle  em- 
ployed herself  in  showing  the  numerous  treasures  of  art 
and  vertu  the  house  contained.  The  picture-gallery  pleased 
Beatrice  most;  she  gloried  in  the  portraits  of  the  grand  old 
ancestors,  "  each  with  a  story  to  his  name."  'One  morn- 
ing she  stood  before  Lady  Helena's  portrait,  admiring  the 
striking  likeness.  Suddenly  turning  to  the  stately  lady  by 
her  side,  she  said:  "All  the  Ladies  Earle  are  here:  where 


DORA    THORNE.  121 

is  my  own  mamma?    Her  face  is  sweet  and  fair  as  any  of 
these.     Why  is  there  no  portrait  of  her?" 

'  There  will  be  one  some  day,"  said  Lady  Helena. 
"  When  your  father  returns  all  these  things  will  be  seen 
to." 

"  We  have  no  brother/'  continued  Beatrice.  **  Every 
baron  here  seems  to  have  been  succeeded  by  his  son — who 
will  succeed  my  father?" 

"  His  next  of  kin,"  replied  Lady  Earle,  sadly — "  Lionel 
Dacre;  he  is  a  third  cousin  of  Lord  Earle.  He  will  have 
both  title  and  estate. " 

She  sighed  deeply;  it  was  a  real  trouble  to  Lady  Helena 
that  she  should  never  see  her  son's  son,  never  love  and 
nurse,  never  bless  the  heir  of  Earlescourt. 

Lillian  delighted  most  in  the  magnificent  gardens,  the 
thickly  wild  wooded  park,  where  every  dell  was  filled  with 
flowers  and  ferns,  every  knoll  crowned  with  noble  trees. 
The  lake,  with  white  lilies  sleeping  on  its  tranquil  bosoio 
and  weeping-willows  touching  its  clear  surface,  pleased  hot 
most  of  all.  As  they  stood  on  its  banks,  Beatrice,  looking 
into  the  transparent  depths,  shuddered,  and  turned  quickly 
away. 

"  1  am  tired  of  water,"  she  said;  "  nothing  wearied  me 
BO  much  at  Kuutsford  as  the  wide,  restless  sea.  1  must 
have  been  born  with  a  natural  antipathy  to  water." 

Many  days  passed  before  they  were  familiar  with  Earles- 
court. Every  day  brought  its  new  wonders. 

A  pretty  suite  of  rooms  had  been  prepared  for  each  sis- 
ter; they  were  in  the  western  wing,  and  communicatul 
with  cadi  other.  The  Italian  nurse  who  had  come  with 
them  from  Florence  had  preferred  remaining  with  Dora. 
Lady  Earle  had  engaged  two  fashionable  ladies'  maids,  had 
also  ordered  for  each  a  wardrobe  suitable  to  the  daughters 
of  Lord  Earle. 

m  Mrs.  Vyvian  had  two  rooms  near  her  charges.  Knotv- 
iiig  that  some  months  might  elapse  before  Ronald  returned, 
Lady  Helena  settled  upon  a  course  of  action.  The  young 
girls  were  to  kept  in  seclusion,  and  not  to  be  introduced  to 
the  gay  world,  seeing  only  a  few  old  friends  of  the  family; 
they  were  to  continue  to  study  for  a  few  hours  every  morn- 
ing, to  drive  or  wulk  with  Lady  Earle  after  luncheon,  to 
join  her  at  the  seven-o'clock  dinner,  and  to  uass  the  even- 
ing in  the  drawing-room. 


122  DORA    THORNE. 

It  was  a  new  and  delightful  life.  Beatrice  reveled  in  the 
luxury  and  grandeur  that  surrounded  her.  She  amused 
Lady  Earle  by  her  vivacious  description  of  the  quiet  home 
at  the  Elms. 

"  I  feel  at  home  here,"  she  said,  "  and  1  never  did  there. 
At  times  I  wake  up,  half  dreading  to  hear  the  rustling  of 
the  tall  elm-trees,  and  old  Mrs.  Thome's  voice  asking 
about  the  cows.  Poor  mamma!  1  can  not  understand  her 
taste." 

When  they  became  more  accustomed  to  the  new  life,  the 
strange  incongruity  in  their  family  struck  them  both.  On 
one  side  a  grand  old  race,  intermarried  with  some  of  the 
noblest  families  in  England — a  stately  house,  title,  wealth, 
rank,  and  position;  on  the  other  a  simple  farmer  and  his 
homely  wife,  the  plain  old  homestead,  and  complete  isola- 
tion from  all  they  considered  society. 

How  could  it  be?  How  came  it  that  their  father  was 
lord  of  Earlescourt  and  their  mother  the  daughter  of  a 
plain  country  farmer?  For  the  first  time  it  struck  them 
both  that  there  was  some  mystery  in  the  life  of  their  par- 
ents. Both  grew  more  shy  of  speaking  of  the  Elms,  feel- 
ing with  the  keen  instinct  peculiar  to  youth  that  there  waa 
something  unnatural  in  their  position. 

Visitors  came  occasionally  to  Earlescourt.  Sir  Harry 
and  Lady  Laurence  of  Holtham  often  called;  Lady  Char- 
ten's  came  from  Greenoke,  and  all  warmly  admired  the 
lovely  daughters  of  Lord  Earle. 

Beatrice,  with  her  brilliant  beauty,  her  magnificent 
voice,  and  gay,  graceful  manner,  was  certainly  the  favorite. 
Sir  Harry  declared  she  was  the  finest  rider  in  the  county. 

There  was  an  unusual  stir  of  preparation  once  when 
Lady  Earle  told  them  that  the  daughter  of  her  devoted 
friend,  Lady  Charteris,  was  coming  to  spend  a  few  days  at 
Earlescourt.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  they  saw  the  beau- 
tiful and  stately  lady  whose  fate  was  so  strangely  interwoven 
with  theirs. 

Valentine  Charteris  was  no  longer  "  the  queen  of  the 
county."  Prince  di  Borgezi  had  won  the  beautiful  English 
woman.  He  had  followed  her  to  GreeLioke,  and  repeated 
his  question.  There  was  neither  coquetry  nor  affectation 
in  \  alentine — she  had  thought  the  matter  over,  and  de- 
cided that  she  was  never  likely  to  meet  with  any  one  else 
she  liked  and  respected  so  much  as  her  Italian  lover.  He 


DORA    THORNB.  123 

bad  the  virtues,  without  the  faults,  of  the  children  of  the 
South;  a  lavishly  generous,  princely  disposition;  well-cul- 
tivated artistic  tastes;  good  principles  and  a  chivalrous 
sense  of  honor.  Perhaps  the  thing  that  touched  her  most 
was  his  great  love  for  her.  In  many  respects  he  resembled 
Ronald  Earle  more  nearly  than  any  one  else  she  had  ever 
met. 

To  the  intense  delight  of  both  parents,  Miss  Chartoria 
accepted  him.  For  her  sake  the  prince  consented  to  spend 
every  alternate  year  in  England. 

Three  times  had  the  whole  country-side  welcomed  the 
stately  Italian  and  his  beautiful  wife.  This  was  their 
fourth  visit  to  England,  and,  when  the  princess  heard 
from  Lady  Gharteris  that  Ronald's  two  daughters,  whom 
she  remembered  as  little  babes,  were  at  Earlesconrt,  noth- 
ing would  satisfy  bet  but  a  visit  there. 

The  young  girls  looked  in  admiring  wonder  at  the  lady. 
They  had  never  seen  any  one  so  dazzling  or  so  bright.  The 
calm,  grand,  Grecian  face  had  gained  in  beauty;  the  mag- 
nificent head,  with  its  wealth  of  golden  hair,  the  tall, 
stately  figure,  charmed  them.  And  when  Valentine  took 
them  in  her  arms  and  kissed  them  her  thoughts  went  back 
to  the  white,  wild  face  in  the  garden  and  the  dark  eyes  that 
had  flamed  in  hot  anger  upon  her. 

"  I  knew  your  mother  years  ago,"  she  said;  "  has  she 
never  mentioned  my  name?  1  used  to  nurse  you  both  in 
the  little  villa  at  Florence.  I  was  one  of  your  father's  old- 
est friends." 

No,  they  had  never  heard  her  name;  and  Beatrice  won- 
dered that  her  mother  could  have  known  and  forgotten  one 
so  beautiful  as  the  princess. 

The  week  she  remained  passed  like  a  long,  bright  dream. 
Beatrice  almost  worshiped  Valentine;  this  was  what  she 
had  dreamed  of  long  ago;  this  was  one  of  the  ideal  ladiea 
living  in  the  bright,  gay  world  she  was  learning  to  under* 
stand. 

U  hen  the  prince  and  princess  left  Earlescourt  they  made 
Lady  Helena  promise  that  Beatrice  and  Lillian  should  visit 
them  at  Florence.  They  spoke  of  the  fair  and  coquettish 
I  Dim  toss  Rosali,  still  a  reigning  belle,  and  said  how  warmly 
she  would  welcome  them  for  their  father's  sake. 

"  You  talk  so  much  of  Italy,"  said  Valentine  to  Bea- 
Vi<  • .  '  *  It  is  just  the  land  for  the  romance  you  love.  You 


124  DOHA    THORNE. 

Bball  see  blue  skies  and  sunny  seas,  vines,  and  myrtles,  anj 
orange-trees  in  bloom;  you  shall  see  such  luxuriance  and 
beauty  that  you  will  never  wish  to  return  to  this  cold, 
dreary  England." 

It  was  thus  arranged  that,  when  Lord  Earle  returned, 
the  visit  should  be  paid.  The  evening  after  their  guests' 
departure  seemed  long  and  triste. 

"  1  will  write  to  mamma/'  said  Beatrice;  "  it  is  strange 
she  never  told  us  anything  of  her  friend.  I  must  tell  her 
all  about  the  visit." 

Not  daring  to  ask  the  girls  to  keep  any  secret  from 
Dora,  Lady  Earle  was  obliged  to  let  the  letter  go.  Th«i 
passionate,  lonely  heart  brooded  over  every  word.  Bea- 
trice dwelt  with  loving  admiration  on  the  calm,  grand 
beauty  of  the  princess,  her  sweet  and  gracious  manner,  her 
kindly  recollection  of  Dora,  and  her  "urgent  invitation  to 
them.  Dora  read  it  through  calmly,  each  word  stabbing 
her  with  cruel  pain.  The  old,  fierce  jealousy  rose  in  her 
heart,  crushing  every  gentle  thought.  She  tore  the  letter, 
so  full  of  Valentine,  into  a  thousand  shreds. 

"  She  drew  my  husband  from  me,"  she  cried,  "  with  the 
miserable  beauty  of  her  fair  face,  and  now  she  will  win  my 
children." 

Then  across  the  fierce  tempest  of  jealous  anger  came  one 
thought  like  a  ray  of  light.  Valentine  was  married;  she 
had  married  the  wealthy,  powerful  prince  who  had  been 
Ronald's  patron;  so  that,  after  all,  even  if  she  had  lured 
Ronald  from  her,  he  had  not  cared  for  her,  or  she  had  soon 
ceased  to  care  for  him. 

Beatrice  thought  it  still  more  strange  when  her  mother's 
reply  to  that  long,  enthusiastic  letter  came.  Dora  said 
simply  that  she  had  never  named  the  Princess  di  Borgezi 
because  she  was  a  person  whom  she  did  not  care  to  re- 
member. 

Fifteen  months  passed,  and  at  length  came  a  letter  from 
Lord  Earle,  saying  that  he  hoped  to  reach  Eugland  before 
Christmas,  and  in  any  case  would  be  with  them  by  Christ- 
mas-day. It  was  a  short  letter,  written  in  the  hurry  of 
traveling;  the  words  that  touched  his  children  most,  were 
4 '  1  am  glad  you  have  the  girls  at  Earlescourt:  I  am  anxious 
to  see  what  they  are  like.  Make  them  happy,  mother;  let 
them  have  all  they  want;  and,  if  it  be  possible,  after  my 
long  neglect,  teach  them  to  love  me." 


DORA    THORNE.  12$ 

The  letter  contained  no  mention  of  their  mother ;  no  al- 
lusion was  made  to  her.  The  girls  marked  the  weeks  go 
by  in  some  little  trepidation.  What  if,  after  all,  this  fa- 
ther, whom  they  did  not  remember,  should  not  like  them? 
Beatrice  did  not  think  such  a  thing  very  probable,  but  Lil- 
lian passed  many  an  hour  in  nervous,  fanciful  alarm. 

It  was  strange  how  completely  all  the  old  life  had  died 
away.  Both  had  feit  a  kind  of  affection  for  the  homely 
farmer  and  his  wife — they  sent  many  presents  to  them— * 
but  Beatrice  would  curl  her  proud  lip  in  scorn  when  she 
read  aloud  that  "  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thome  desired  their 
humble  duty  to  Lady  Earle." 

Lady  Earle  felt  no  anxiety  about  her  son's  return;  look- 
ing at  his  daughters,  she  saw  no  fault  in  them.  Beautiful, 
accomplished,  and  graceful,  what  more  could  he  desire? 
She  inwardly  thanked  Providence  that  neither  of  them 
bore  the  least  resemblance  to  the  Thornes.  Beatrice  looked 
like  one  of  the  Ladies  Earle  just  stepped  out  from  a  pict- 
ure; Lillian,  in  her  fair,  dove-like  loveliness,  was  quite  as 
charming.  What  would  Lady  Earle — so  truthful,  so  hon- 
orable— have  thought  or  said  had  she  known  that  their 
bright  favorite  with  the  Earle  face  had  plighted  her  troth, 
an  known  to  any  one,  to  the  captain  of  a  trading-vessel, 
who  was  to  claim  her  in  two  years  for  his  wife? 

Lady  Earle  had  formed  her  own  plans  for  Beatrice;  she 
A«ped  the  time  would  come  when  she  would  be  Lady  Earle 
of  Karlescourt.  Nothing  could  be  nioro  delightful,  noth- 
ing easier,  provided  Beatrice  would  marry  the  young  heir, 
Lionel  Dacre. 

One  morning,  as  the  sisters  sat  in  Lillian's  room,  Lady 
Kurle  entered  with  an  unusual  expression  of  emotion  on  her 
fair,  high-bred  faca  She  held  an  open  letter  in  her  hand. 

"My  dear  children,"  she  said,  "you  must  each  loot 

£>ur  very  best  this  evening.     1  have  a  note  here— your 
ther  will  be  home  to-night" 

The  calm,  proud  voice  faltered  then,  and  the  stately  mis- 
tress of  Earlescourt  wept  at  the  thought  of  her  son's  return 
as  she  had  never  wept  since  he  left  her. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

ONCE  more  Ronald   Earle  stood  upon  English  shores; 
onr<      ' "in  ho  luturd  his  mother  tongue  ?piken  all  around 


126  DORA    THORNE. 

him;  once  again  ne  felt  the  charm  of  quiet,  sweet  .Kn^ou 
scenery.  Seventeen  years  had  passed  since  he  had  taken 
Dora's  hand  in  his  and  told  her  he  cared  nothing  for  all 
he  was  leaving  behind  him,  nothing  for  any  one  in  the 
world  save  herself — seventeen  years,  and  his  love-dream 
had  lasted  bat  two!  Then  came  the  cruel  shock  that 
blinded  him  with  anger  and  shame;  then  came  the  rude 
awakening  from  his  dream  when,  looking  his  life  bravely 
in  the  face,  he  found  it  nothing  but  a  burden — hope  and 
ambition  gone — the  grand  political  mission  he  had  once 
believed  to  be  his  own  impossible — nothing  left  to  him 
of  his  glorious  dreams  but  existence —and  all  for  what? 
For  the  mad,  foolish  love  of  a  pretty  face.  He  hated  him- 
self for  his  weakness  and  folly.  For  that — for  the  fair, 
foolish  woman  who  had  shamed  him  so  sorely — he  had  half 
broken  his  mother's  heart,  and  had  imbittered  his  father's 
life.  For  that  he  had  made  himself  an  exile,  old  in  his 
youth,  worn  and  weary,  when  life  should  have  been  all 
smiling  around  him. 

These  thoughts  flashed  through  his  mind  as  the  expresa 
train  whirled  through  the  quiet  English  landscape.  Winter 
snows  had  fallen,  the  great  bare  branches  of  the  tall  trees 
*rere  gaunt  and  snow-laden,  the  fields  were  one  vast  expanse 
of  snow,  the  frost  had  hardened  the  icicles  hanging  from 
hedges  and  trees.  The  scene  seemed  strange  to  him  after 
BO  many  years  of  the  tropical  sun.  Yet  every  breath  of  the 
sharp,  frosty  air  invigorated  him  and  brought  him  new  life 
and  energy. 

At  length  the  little  station  was  reached,  and  he  saw  the 
carriage  with  his  liveried  servants  awaiting  him.  A  warm 
flush  rose  to  Lord  Earle's  face;  for  &  moment  he  felt  almost 
ashamed  of  meeting  his  old  domestics.  They  must  all 
know  now  why  he  had  left  home.  His  own  valet,  Morton, 
was  there.  Lord  Earle  had  kept  him,  and  the  man  had 
asked  permission  to  go  and  meet  his  old  master. 

Ronald  was  pleased  to  see  him;  there  were  a  few  words 
of  courteous  greeting  from  Lord  Earle  to  all  around,  and 
a  few  still  kinder  words  to  Morton. 

Once  again  Ronald  saw  the  old  trees  of  which  he  had 
dreamed  so  often,  the  stately  cedars,  the  grand  spreading 
oaks,  the  tall  aspens,  the  lady  beeches,  the  groves  of  pop- 
lars— every  spot  was  familiar  to  him.  In  the  distance  he 
saw  the  lake  shining  through  the  trees;  he  drove  pasfc  the 


DORA    THOBNB.  127 

extensive  gardens,  the  orchards  now  bare  and  empty.  He 
was  not  ashamed  of  the  tears  that  rushed  warmly  to  his 
eyes  when  the  towers  and  turrets  of  Earlescourt  came  in 
sight. 

A  sharp  sense  of  pain  filled  his  heart — keen  regret,  bitter 
remorse,  a  longing  for  power  to  undo  all  that  was  done, 
to  m-all  the  lost,  miserable  years — the  best  of  his  life.  He 
might  return;  he  might  do  his  best  to  atone  for  his  error; 
but  neither  repentance  nor  atonement  could  give  him  back 
the  father  whose  pride  he  had  humbled  in  the  dust. 

As  the  carriage  rolled  up  the  broad  drive,  a  hundred  in- 
stances of  his  father's  love  and  indulgence  Hashed  across 
him — he  had  never  refused  any  request  save  one.  He 
wisely  and  tenderly  tried  to  dissuade  him  from  the  false 
step  that  could  never  be  retraced — but  all  in  vain. 

llo  remembered  his  father's  face  on  that  morning  when, 
with  outstretched  hands,  he  bade  him  leave  his  presence 
and  never  seek  it  more — when  he  told  him  that  whenever 
he  looked  upon  his  dead  face  he  was  to  remember  that 
death  itself  was  less  bitter  than  the  hour  in  which  he  had 
been  deceived. 

Sad,  bitter  memories  filled,  his  heart  when  the  carriage 
stopped  at  the  door  and  Ronald  caught  sight  of  the  old 
familiar  faces,  some  in  smiles  some  in  tears. 

The  library  door  was  thrown  open.  Hardly  knowing 
whither  he  went,  Lord  Earle  entered,  and  it  was  closed  be- 
hind him.  His  eyes,  dimmed  with  tears,  saw  a  tall,  stately 
lady,  who  advanced  to  meet  him  with  open  arms. 

The  face  ho  remembered  so  fair  and  calm  bore  deep 
marks  of  sorrow;  the  proud,  tender  eyes  were  shadowed; 
the  glossy  hair  was  threaded  with  silver;  but  it  was  his 
mother's  voice  that  cried  to  him,  "  My  son,  my  son,  thank 
Heaven  you  have  returned  I" 

He  never  remembered  how  long  his  mother  held  him 
clasped  in  her  arms.  Earth  has  no  love  like  a  mother's 
love — none  so  tender,  so  true,  so  full  of  sweet  wisdom,  so 
replete  with  pity  and  pardon.  It  was  her  own  son  whom 
Lady  Earle  held  in  her  arms.  She  forgot  that  he  was  a 
man  who  had  incurred  just  displeasure.  He  was  her  boy, 
her  own  treasure,  and  so  it  was  that  her  words  of  greeting 
were  all  of  loving  welcoma 

11  How  changed  you  are,"  she  said,  drawing  him  nearer 
to  the  fast-fading  light.  "Your  face  is  quite 


128  .        DORA    THOENE. 

aud  you  look  so  many  years  older — so  sad,  so  worn!    Oh, 
Ronald,  1  must  teach  you  to  grow  young  and  happy  again!" 

He  sighed  deeply,  and  his  mother's  heart  grew  sad  as  she 
watched  his  restless  face. 

"Old-fashioned  copy-books  say,  mother,  that  'to  be 
happy  one  must  be  good/  1  have  not  been  good,"  he 
said,  with  a  slight  smile,  "  and  I  shall  never  be  happy." 

In  the  faint  waning  light,  through  which  the  snow 
gleamed  strangely,  mother  and  son  sat  talking.  Lady  Earle 
told  Ronald  of  his  father's  death — of  the  last  yearning  cry 
when  all  the  pent-up  love  of  years  seemed  to  rush  forth 
and  overpower  him  with  its  force.  It  was  some  comfort 
to  him,  after  all,  that  his  father's  last  thoughts  and  last 
words  had  been  of  him. 

His  heart  was  strangely  softened:  a  new  hope  came  to 
him.  Granted  that  the  best  part  of  his  life  was  wasted,  he 
would  do  his  best  with  the  remainder. 

"  And  my  children/'  he  said,  "  my  poor  little  girls!  I 
will  not  see  them  until  I  am  calm  and  refreshed.  I  know 
they  are  well  and  happy  with  you." 

Then,  taking  advantage  of  his  mood,  Lady  Helena  said 
what  she  had  been  longing  to  say. 

"  Ronald,"  she  began,  "  I  have  had  much  to  suffer.  You 
will  never  know  how  my  heart  has  been  torn  between  my 
husband  and  my  son.  Let  my  last  few  years  be  spent  in 
peace." 

"  They  shall,  mother,"  he  said.  "  Yomr  happiness  shall 
be  my  study." 

"  There  can  be  no  rest  for  me,"  continued  his  mother, 
"  unless  all  division  in  our  family  ends.  Ronald,  I,  who 
never  asked  you  a  favor  before,  ask  one  now.  Seek  Dora 
and  bring  her  home  reconciled  and  happy." 

A  dark  angry  frown  such  as  she  had  never  seen  there  be° 
iore  came  into  Lord  Earle's  face. 

44  Anything  but  that,"  he  replied,  hastily;  "  I  can  not 
do  it,  mother.  1  could  not,  if  I  lay  upon  my  death-bed." 

44  And  why?"  asked  Lady  Helena,  simply,  as  she  had 
asked  Dora. 

"  For  a  hundred  reasons,  the  first  and  greatest  of  which, 
is  that  she  has  outraged  all  my  notions  of  honor,  shamed 
and  disgraced  me  in  the  presence  of  one  whom  I  esteemed 
and  revered;  she  has —     But  no,  I  will  not  speak  of  my 
wife's  errors,  it  were  unmanlv.     I  can  not  forgive  her, 


DORA    THORITES.  129 

mother.  I  wish  her  no  harm;  let  her  have  every  luxury  my 
wealth  can  procure,  but  do  not  namo  her  to  me.  I  should, 
be  utterly  devoid  of  all  pride  if  I  could  pardon  her." 

"  Pride  on  your  side,"  said  Lady  Eurle,  sadly,  "  au;l 
temper  on  hers!  Oil,  Ronald,  how  will  it  end?  BJ  uiso 
in  time;  the  most  honest  and  noble  man  is  ho  who  con- 
quers himself.  Conquer  yourself,  my  son,  and  pardon 
Dora." 

"  I  could  more  easily  die,"  he  replied,  bitterly. 

*'  Then,"  said  Lady  Earle,  sorrowfully,  **  I  must  say  U 
you  as  1  said  to  Dora — beware:  pride  and  temper  must  bend 
and  break.  Be  warned  in  time." 

'*  Mother,"  interrupted  Konald,  bending  over  the  pale 
face  so  full  of  emotion,  "  let  this  be  the  last  time.  You 
distress  yourself  and  me;  do  not  renew  the  subject.  1  may 
forgive  her  in  the  hour  of  death — not  before." 

Lady  Helena's  last  hope  died  away;  she  had  thought  that 
in  the  first  hour  of  his  return,  when  old  memories  had 
softened  his  heart,  she  would  prevail  on  him  to  seek  his 
wife  whom  he  had  ceased  to  love,  and  for  their  children's 
sake  bring  her  home.  She  little  dreamed  that  the  com- 
ing homo,  the  recollection  of  his  father,  the  ghost  of  his 
lost  youth  and  blasted  hopes  rising  every  instant,  had 
hardened  him  against  the  one  for  whom  he  had  lost  all. 

"  You  will  like  to  see  the  children  now,"  said  Lady  Hel< 
ena.  "  I  will  ring  for  lights.  You  will  be  charmed  with 
both.  Beatrice  is  much  like  you — she  has  the  Earle  face, 
and.  unless  I  am  mistaken,  the  Earle  spirit,  too." 

*'  Beatrice,"  said  Lillian,  as  they  deicended  the  broad 
Btaircase,  *'  I  am  frightened.  I  wish  1  could  remember 
something  of  papa — his  voice  or  his  smile;  it  is  like  going 
to  see  a  stranger.  And  suppose,  after  all,  he  does  not  like 
us!" 

"  Suppose  what  is  of  greater  importance, "said Beatrice 
proudly — *'  that  we  do  not  like  him!" 

But,  for  all  her  high  spirits  and  hauteur.,  Beatrice  almost 
trembled  as  the  library  door  opened  and  Lady  Earle  came 
forward  to  meet  thorn.  Beatrice  riiised  her  eyes  daunt- 
lessly  and  saw  before  her  a  tall,  stately  gentleman  with  a 
handsome  face,  the  saddest  and  noblest  she  had  ever  seen 
—clear,  keen  eyes  th  I  to  pierce  through  all  dis« 

guise  and  read  all  thoughts. 

*'  There  H  B»utric0~'<0Aid  Lad?  Helena,  a?  she  took  her 


130  DORA    THORNE. 

hand  gently  -,  and  Eonald  looked  in  startled  wonder  at  the 
superb  beauty  of  the  face  and  figure  before  him. 

"  Beatrice,"  he  said,  kissing  the  proud,  bright  face, 
"can  it  be  possible?  When  I  saw  you  last"  you  were  a 
little,  helpless  child/* 

"  1  am  not  helpless  now,"  she  replied,  with  a  smile; 
"  and  1  hope  you  are  going  to  love  me  very  much,  papa. 
You  have  to  make  up  for  fifteen  years  of  absence.  I  think 
it  will  not  be  very  difficult  to  love  you." 

He  seemed  dazzled  by  her  beauty — her  frank,  high  spirit 
and  fearless  words.  Then  he  saw  a  golden  head,  with 
sweet,  dove-like  eyes,  raised  to  his. 

"  I  am  Lillian,  papa,"  said  a  clear,  musical  voice. 
**  Look  at  me,  please — and  love  me  too. " 

He  did  both,  charmed  with  the  gentle  grace  of  her  man- 
ner, and  the  fair,  pure  face.  Then  Lord  Earle  took  both 
his  children  in  his  arms. 

"  1  wish,"  he  said,  in  a  broken  voice  and  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  "  that  I  had  seen  you  before.  They  told  me  my  little 
twin  children  had  grown  into  beautiful  girls,  but  1  did  not 
realize  it." 

And  again,  when  she  saw  his  proud  happiness,  Lady  Hel- 
ena longed  to  plead  for  the  mother  of  his  children,  that  she 
might  also  share  in  his  love;  but  she  dared  not.  His  words 
haunted  her.  Dora  would  be  forgiven  only  in  the  hour 
of  death. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  evening  of  his  return  was  one  of  the  happiest  of 
Lord  Earle's  life.  He  was  charmed  with  his  daughters. 
Lady  Helena  thought,  with  a  smile,  that  it  was  difficult  to 
realize  the  relationship  between  them.  Although  her  son 
looked  sad  and  care-worn,  he  seemed  more  like  an  elder 
brother  than  the  father  of  the  two  young  girls. 

There  was  some  little  restraint  between  them  at  first. 
Lord  Earle  seemed  at  a  loss  what  to  talk  about;  then  Lady 
Helena's  gracious  tact  came  into  play.  She  would  not 
have  dinner  in  the  large  dining-room,  she  ordered  it  to  be 
served  in  the  pretty  morning-room,  where  the  fire  burned 
cheerfully  and  the  lamps  gave  a  flow  of  mellow  light.  It 
was  a  picture  of  warm,  cosy  English  comfort,  and  Lord 
Earle  ]nr.'«xJ  pleased  when  he  saw  it. 
. 


DORA    THORNE.  131 

Then,  when  dinner  was  over,  she  asked  Beatrice  to  sing, 
and  she,  only  pleased  to  show  Lord  Earle  the  extent  of  her 
accomplishments,  obeyed.  Her  superb  voice,  with  its  clear, 
ringing  tones,  amazed  him.  Beatrice  sung  song  after  song 
with  a  passion  and  fire  that  told  how  deep  the  music  lay  in 
her  soul. 

Then  Lady  Helena  bade  Lillian  bring  out  her  folio  of 
drawings,  and  again  Lord  Earle  was  pleased  and  surprised 
by  the  skill  and  talent  he  had  not  looked  for.  He  praised 
the  drawings  highly.  One  especially  attracted  his  atten- 
tion—it was  the  pretty  scene  Lillian  had  sketched  on  the 
May  day  now  so  long  passed — the  sun  shining  upon  the 
distant  white  sails,  and  the  broad,  beautiful  sweep  of  sea  at 
Knutsford. 

"  That  is  an  excellent  picture,"  he  said;  "  it  ought  to  be 
framed.  It  is  too  good  to  be  hidden  in  a  folio.  You  have 
jii.st  caught  the  right  coloring,  Lillian;  one  can  almost  see 
the  sun  sparkling  on  the  water.  Where  is  this  sea-view 
taken  from?" 

"  Do  you  not  know  it?"  she  asked,  looking  at  him  with 
wonder  in  his  eyes.  "It  is  from  Knutsford — mamma's 
home." 

Ronald  looked  up  in  sudden,  pained  surprise. 

"  Mamma's  home!"    The  words  smote  him  like  a  blow. 

He  remembered  Dora's  offense — her  cold  letter,  her  hur- 
ried llight,  his  own  firm  resolve  never  to  receive  her  in  his 
home  again — but  he  had  not  remembered  that  the  children 
must  love  her — that  she  was  part  of  their  lives.  He  could 
not  drive  her  memory  from  their  minds.  There  before 
him  lay  the  pretty  picture  of  "  mamma's  home." 

"  This,"  said  Lillian,  "  is  the  Elms.  See  those  grand 
old  trees,  papa!  This  is  the  window  of  mamma's  room, 
and  this  was  our  study. " 

He  looked  with  wonder.  This,  then,  wae  Dora's  horn  ,• 
— the  pretty,  quaint  homestead  stand  ing  in  the  midst  of  the 
green  meadows.  As  he  gazed,  he  half  wondered  what  the 
Dora  who  for  fifteen  years  had  lived  there  could  be  like. 
Did  the  curling  rings  of  black  hair  fall  as  gracefully  as 
evi-i •?  Had  the  olushing  dimpled  face  grown  pale  and  still? 
Ami  thru,  chasing  away  all  softened  thought,  came  the 
rfim-rubrance  of  that  hateful  garden  scene.  Ah,  no,  he 
could  never  forgive — he  could  not  speak  of  her  evsn  to 


BOEA    THOENE. 

these,  her  children!  The  two  pictures  were  laid  aside,  and 
no  more  was  said  of  framing  them. 

Lord  Earle  said  to  himself,  after  his  daughters  had  re- 
tired, that  both  were  charming;  but,  though  he  hardly 
owned  it  to  himself,  if  he  had  "a  preference,  it  was  for 
brilliant,  beautiful  Beatrice.  He  had  never  seen  any  one 
to  surpass  her.  After  Lady  Helena  had  left  him,  he  sat 
by  the  fire  dreaming,  as  his  father  long  years  ago  had  done 
before  him. 

It  was  not  too  late  yet,  he  thought,  to  retrieve  the  fatal 
mistake  of  his  life.  He  would  begin  at  once.  He  would 
first  give  all  his  attention  to  his  estate;  itsheuldbeamodel 
for  all  others.  He  would  interest  himself  in  social  duties; 
people  who  lamented  his  foolish,  wasted  youth  should 
speak  with  warm  admiration  of  his  manhood;  abofi  all 
matters  he  dreamed  of  great  things  for  his  daughters,  es- 
pecially Beatrice.  With  her  beauty  and  grace,  her  mag- 
nificent voice,  her  frank,  fearless  spirit,  and  piquant, 
charming  wit,  she  would  be  a  queen  of  society;  through 
his  daughter  his  early  error  would  be  redeemed.  Beatrice 
was  sure  to  marry  well;  she  would  bring  fresh  honors  to 
the  grand  old  race  he  had  shamed.  When  the  annals  of 
the  family  told,  in  years  to  come,  the  story  of  his  mistaken 
marriage,  it  would  be  amply  redeemed  by  the  grand  al- 
liance Beatrice  would  be  sure  to  contract. 

His  hopes  rested  upon  her  and  centered  in  her.  As  he 
sat  watching  the  glowing  embers,  there  came  to  him  the 
thought  that  what  Beatrice  was  to  him  he  had  once  been  to 
the  father  he  was  never  more  to  see.  Ah!  if  his  daughter 
should  be  like  himself — if  she  should  ruin  his  hopes,  throw 
down  the  fair  castle  he  had  built — should  love  unworthily, 
marry  beneath  her,  deceive  and  disappoint  him !  But  no, 
it  should  not  be — he  would  watch  over  her.  Lord  Earle 
shuddered  at  the  thought. 

During  breakfast  on  the  morning  following  his  return 
Lady  Helena  asked  what  his  plans  were  for  the  day— 
whether  he  intended  driving  the  girls  over  to  Holte. 

"No,"  said  Lord  Earle.  "  I  wish  to  have  a  long  conver- 
sation with  my  daughters.  We  shall  be  engaged  during 
the  morning.  After  luncheon  we  will  go  to  Holte." 

Ronald,  Lord  Earle,  had  made  up  his  mind.  In  the 
place  where  his  father  had  warned  him,  and  made  the 
strong'  ?t  impression  upon  him,  he  would  warn  his  cbil« 


DOHA    THORNE.  135 

dren,  and  in  the  same  way;  so  he  took  tliem  to  the  picture- 
gallery,  where  he  had  last  stood  with  his  father. 

With  gentle  firmness  he  said:  "  I  have  brought  you  here 
as  1  have  something  to  say  to  you  which  is  best  said  h^re. 
Years  ago,  children,  my  father  brought  me,  as  1  bring  you, 
to  warn  and  advise  me — I  warn  and  advise  you.  We  are, 
though  so  closely  related,  almost  strangers.  1  am  ready 
to  love  you  and  do  love  you.  1  intend  to  make  your 
happiness  my  chief  study.  But  there  is  one  thing  I 
must  have — that  is,  perfect  openness;  one  thing  1  must 
forbid — that  is,  deceit  of  any  kind  on  any  subject.  If 
either  of  you  have  in  your  short  lives  a  secret,  tell  it  to 
me  now;  if  either  of  you  love  any  one,  even  though  it  be 
one  unworthy,  teil  me  now.  I  will  pardon  any  impru- 
dence, any  folly,  any  want  of  caution — everything  save  de- 
ceit Trust  me,  and  I  will  be  gentle  as  a  tender  woman; 
deceive  me,  and  I  will  never  forgive  you." 

Both  fair  faces  had  grown  pale — Beatrice's  from  sudden 
and  deadly  fear;  Lillian's  from  strong  emotion. 

**  The  men  of  our  race,"  said  Lord  Earle,  "  have  erred 
at  times,  the  women  never.  You  belong  to  a  long  line  of 
noble,  pure,  and  high-bred  women;  there  must  be  nothing 
in  your  lives  less  high  and  less  noble  than  in  theirs;  but 
if  there  had  been — if,  from  want  of  vigilance,  of  draining, 
and  of  caution  there  should  be  anything  in  this  short  past, 
tell  it  to  me  now,  and  I  will  forget  it." 

Neither  spoke  to  him  one  word,  and  a  strange  pathos 
came  into  his  voice. 

"  I  committed  one  act  of  deceit  in  my  life,"  continued 
Lord  Earlo;  "  it  drove  me  from  home,  and  it  made  mean 
exile  during  the  best  years  of  my  life.  It  matters  little  what 
it  was — you  will  never  know;  but  it  has  made  me  merciless 
to  all  deceit.  I  will  never  spare  it;  it  has  made  me  harsh 
and  bitter.  You  will  both  find  in  me  the  truest,  the  best 
of  friends,  if  in  everything  you  are  straightforward  and 
honorable;  but,  children,  dearly  as  Hove  you,  I  will  never 
pardon  a  lie  or  an  act  of  deceit." 

>%  1  in  ver  told  a  lie  in  my  life,"  said  Lillian,  proudly,. 
**  My  mother  taught  us  to  love  the  truth." 

"  And  you,  my  Beatrice?"  he  asked,  gently,  as  he  turned 
to  the  beautiful  face  half  averted  from  him. 

"  I  can  say  with  my  sister,"  was  the  haughty  reply,  "  I 
"have  never  told  a  lie." 


134  DORA    THOKtfE. 

Even  as  she  spoke  her  lips  grew  pale  with  fear,  as  she 
remembered  the  fatal  secret  of  her  engagement  to  Hugh 
Fernely. 

"  1  believe  it,"  replied  Lord  Earle.  "  I  can  read  truth 
in  each  face.  Now  tell  me — have  no  fear — have  you  any 
secret  in  that  past  life?  Remember,  no  matter  what  you 
may  have  done,  I  shull  freely  pardon  it.  If  you  should  be 
in  any  trouble  or  difficulty,  as  young  people  are  at  times,  I 
will  help  you.  I  will  do  anything  for  you,  if  you  will  trust 
me." 

And  again  Lillian  raised  her  sweet  face  to  his. 

"  1  have  no  secret,"  she  said,  simply.  "  I  do  not  think 
I  know  a  secret,  or  anything  like  one.  My  past  life  is  an 
open  book,  papa,  and  you  can  read  every  page  in  it." 

"  Thank  Heaven!"  said  Lord  Earle,  as  he  placed  his 
hand  caressingly  upon  the  fair  head. 

It  was  strange,  and  he  remembered  the  omission  after- 
ward, that  he  did  not  repeat  the  question  to  Beatrice — he 
seemed  to  consider  that  Lillian's  answer  included  her.  He 
did  not  know  her  heart  was  beating  high  with  fear. 

"  I  know,"  he  continued,  gently,  "  that  some  young 
girls  have  their  little  love  secrets.  You  tell  me  you  have 
none.  I  believe  you.  I  have  but  one  word  more  to  say. 
You  will  bs  out  in  the  great  world  soon,  and  you  will  doubt- 
less both  have  plenty  of  admirers.  Then  will  come  the  time 
of  trial  and  temptation;  remember  my  words — there  is  no 
curse  so  great  as  a  clandestine  love,  no  error  so  great  or 
degrading.  One  of  our  race  was  so  cursed,  and  his  punish- 
ment was  great.  No  matter  whom  you  love  and  who  loves 
you,  let  all  be  fair,  honorable,  and  open  as  the  day.  Trust 
me;  do  not  deceive  me.  Let  me  in  justice  say  I  will  never 
oppose  any  reasonable  marriage,  but  I  will  never  pardon 
a  clandestine  attachment 

"  riowever  dearly  1  might  love  the  one  who  so  trans- 
gressed," continued  Lord  Earle,  "  even  if  it  broke  my  heart 
to  part  from  her,  1  should  send  her  from  me  at  once;  she 
should  never  more  be  a  child  of  mine.  Do  not  think  me 
harsh  or  unkind;  I  have  weighty  reasons  for  every  word  I 
have  uttered.  1  am  half  ashamed  to  speak  of  such  things 
to  you,  but  it  must  be  done.  You  are  smiling  Lillian, 
what  is  it?" 

"  I  should  laugh,  papa,"  she  replied,  "  if  you  did  not 
look  so  very  grave.  We  must  see  people  in  order  to  love 


DORA    THORNE.  135 

them.  Beatrice,  how  many  do  we  know  in  the  world? 
Farmer  Leigh,  the  doctor  at  Seabay,  Doctor  Goode,  who 
came  to  the  Elms  when  mamma  was  ill,  two  farm  laborers, 
and  the  shepherd — that  was  the  extent  of  our  acquaintance 
uutil  we  came  to  Earlescourt.  I  may  now  add  Sir  Henry 
Holt  aud  Prince  di  Borgezi  to  my  list.  You  forget,  papa, 
we  have  lived  out  of  the  world." 

Lord  Earle  remembered  with  pleasure  that  it  was  true. 

"  You  will  soon  be  in  the  midst  of  a  new  world,"  ht> 
said,  "  and  before  you  enter  society  I  thought  it  better  to 
give  you  this  warning.  I  place  no  control  over  your  affec- 
tions; the  only  thing  I  forbid,  detest,  and  will  never  par- 
don, is  any  underhand,  clandestine  love  affair.  You  know 
not  what  they  would  cost. " 

lie  remembered  afterward  how  strangely  silent  Beatrice 
was,  and  how  her  beautiful,  proud  face  was  turned  from 
his. 

"  It  is  a  disagreeable  subject,"  said  Lord  Earle,  **  and  I 
am  pleased  to  have  finished  with  it — it  need  never  be  re- 
newed. Now  I  have  one  more  thing  to  say — I  shall  never 
control  or  force  your  affections,  but  in  my  heart  there  is 
one  great  wish. 

Lord  Earle  paused  for  a  few  minutes;  he  was  looking  at 
the  face  of  Lady  Alicia  Earle,  whom  Beatrice  strongly  re- 
sembled. 

"  1  have  no  son/*  he  continued,  "  and  you,  my  daugh- 
ters, will  not  inherit  title  or  estate — both  go  to  Lionel  Dacre. 
If  ever  the  time  should  come  when  Lionel  asks  either  of 
you  to  be  his  wife,  my  dearest  wish  will  be  accomplished. 
And  now,  as  my  long  lecture  is  finished,  and  the  bill  has 
run;:,  we  will  prepare  for  a  visit  to  Sir  Harry  and  Lady 
Laurence." 

There  was  not  much  time  for  thought  during  the  rest  of 
the  duy;  but  when  night  came,  and  Beatrice  was  alone,  she 
looked  the  secret  of  her  life  in  the  face. 

Shu  had   been  strongly  tempted,  when  Lord  Earle  had 

spoken  BO  kindly,  to  tell  him  all.    She  now  wished  she  had 

done  so;    all   would  have  been  over.     He  would  perhaps 

•  hi.leil  her  simple,  girlish  folly,  and  have  forgiven  lu-r. 

;ve  her  now  that  she  had  deliberately 

concealed  the.  fact;  the  time  for  forgiveness  was  past.  A 
;l  mijjht  have  been  told;  it  was  too  late 
:n.  Proud  of  her  and  fond  of  her  as  she 


136  DORA    THOENE. 

saw  Lord  Earle  was,  there  would  be  no  indulgence  for  her 
if  her  secret  was  discovered. 

She  would  have  to  leave  the  magnificent  and  luxurious 
home,  the  splendor  that  delighted  her,  the  glorious  pros- 
pects opening  to  her,  and  return  to  the  Elms,  perhaps  never 
to  leave  it  again.  Ah,  no!  the  secret  must  be  kept!  She 
did  not  feel  much  alarmed;  many  things  might  happen. 
Perhaps  the  "Seagull  "  might  be  lost — she  thought,  with- 
out pain  or  sorrow,  of  the  possible  death  of  the  man  who 
loved  her  as  few  love. 

Even  if  he  returned,  he  might  have  forgotten  her  or 
never  find  her.  She  did  not  feel  very  unhappy  or  ill  at 
ease— the  chances,  she  thought,  were  many  in  her  favor. 
She  had  but  one  thing  to  do — to  keep  all  knowledge  of 
her  secret  from  Lord  Earle. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

As  time  passed  on  all  constraint  between  Lord  Earle  and 
his  daughters  wore  away;  Ronald  even  wondered  himself 
at  the  force  of  his  own  love  for  them.  He  had  made  many 
improvements  since  his  return.  He  did  wonders  upon  the 
estate;  model  cottages  seemed  to  rise  by  magic  in  place  of 
the  wretched  tenements  inhabited  by  poor  tenants;  schools, 
almshouses,  churches,  all  testified  to  his  zeal  for  improve- 
ment. People  began  to  speak  with  warm  admiration  of 
the  Earlescourt  estate  and  of  their  master. 

Nor  did  he  neglect  social  duties:  old  friends  were  invited 
to  Earlescourt;  neighbors  were  hospitably  entertained.  Hia 
name  was  mentioned  with  respect  and  esteem;  the  tide  of 
popularity  turned  in  his  favor.  As  the  spring  drew  near, 
Lord  Earle  became  anxious  for  his  daughters  to  make  their 
debut  in  the  great  world.  They  could  have  no  better  chap- 
eron than  his  own  mother.  Lady  Helena  was  speaking  to 
him  one  morning  of  their  proposed  journey,  when  Lord 
Earle  suddenly  interrupted  her. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  where  are  all  your  jewels?  I 
never  see  you  wearing  any. ' ' 

"  I  put  them  all  away/'  said  Lady  Earle,  "  when  your 
father  died.  I  shall  never  wear  them  again.  The  Earle 
jewels  are  always  worn  by  the  wife  of  the  reigning  lord, 
not  by  the  widow  of  his  predecessor.  Those  jewels  are  not 
mine." 


BORA   THOBNE.  13? 

'*  Shall  we  look  them  over?"  asked  Ronald.  **  Some 
of  them  might  be  reset  for  Beatrice  and  Lillian. " 

Lady  Helena  rang  for  her  maid,  and  the  heavy  cases  of 
jewelry  were  brought  down.  Beatrice  was  in  raptures  with 
them,  and  her  sister  smiled  at  her  admiration. 

The  jewels  might  have  sufficed  for  a  king's  ransom:  the 
diamonds  were  of  the  first  water;  the  rubies  flashed  crim- 
»n;  delicate  pearls  gleamed  palely  upon  their  velvet  beds; 
there  were  emeralds  of  priceless  value.  One  of  the  most 
beautiful  and  costly  jewels  was  an  entire  suite  of  opals  in- 
termixed with  small  diamonds. 

**  These,'*  said  Lord  Earle,  raising  the  precious  stones 
in  his  hands,  **  are  of  immense  value.  Some  of  the  finest 
opals  ever  seen  are  in  this  necklace:  they  were  taken  from 
the  crown  of  an  Indian  prince  and  bequeathed  to  one  of 
our  ancestors.  So  much  is  said  about  the  unlucky  stone 
—the  pierre  du  malheur,  as  the  French  call  the  ojr»l — that 
1  did  not  care  so  much  for  them." 

44  Give  me  the  opals,  papa/'  said  Beatrice,  laughing; 
"  1  have  no  superstitious  fears  about  them.  Brigl  *;  and 
beautiful  jewels  always  oeemed  to  me  one  of  the  necessaries 
of  life.  I  prefer  diamonds,  but  these  opals  are  magnifi- 
cent." 

She  held  out  her  hands,  and  for  the  first  time  Lord  Earle 
saw  the  opal  ring  upon  her  finger.  He  caught  the  pretty 
white  hand  in  his  own. 

"  That  is  a  beautiful  ring,"  he  said.  '  These  opals  are 
splendid.  Who  gave  it  to  you,  Beatrice?" 

The  Question  came  upon  her  suddenly  like  a  deadly 
shock;  she  had  forgotten  all  about  the  ring,  and  wore  it 
only  from  habit. 

For  a  moment  her  heart  seemed  to  stand  still  and  her 
senses  to  desert  her.  Then  with  a  self-possession  worthy 
of  a  better  cause,  Beatrice  looked  up  into  her  father's  face 
with  a  smile. 

44  It  was  given  to  me  at  the  Elms,"  she  said,  so  simply 
that  the  same  thought  crossed  the  minds  of  her  three 
listeners — that  it  had  oeen  given  by  Dora  and  her  daughter 
did  not  like  to  say  so. 

Lord  Earle  looked  on  in  proud  delight  while  his  beauti- 
ful daughters  chose  the  jewels  they  liked  best.  The  differ- 
ence in  taste  struck  and  amused  him.  Beatrice  chose  dia- 


138  DOBA    THOENE. 

monds,  fiery  rubies,  purple  amethysts;  Lillian  cared  for 
nothing  but  the  pretty  pale  pearls  and  bright  emeralds. 

"  Some  of  these  settings  are  very  old-fashioned,"  said 
Lord  Earle.  "  We  will  have  new  designs  from  Hunt  & 
Boskell.  They  must  be  reset  before  you  go  to  London. " 

The  first  thing  Beatrice  did  was  to  take  off  the  opal  ring 
and  lock  it  away.  She  trembled  still  from  the  shock  of  her 
father's  question.  The  fatal  secret  vexed  her.  How  fool- 
ish she  had  been  to  risk  so  much  for  a  few  stolen  hours  of 
happiness— for  praise  and  flattery — she  could  not  say  for 

love. 

******* 

The  time  so  anxiously  looked  for  came  at  last.  Lord 
Earle  toofc  possession  of  his  town  mansion,  and  his  daughters 
prepared  for  their  debut. 

It  was  in  every  respect  a  successful  one.  People  were  in 
raptures  with  the  beautiful  sisters,  both  so  charming  yet  so 
unlike.  Beatrice,^brilliant  and  glowing,  her  magnificent 
face  haunted  those  who  saw  it  like  a  beautiful  dream — Lil- 
lian, fair  and  "graceful,  as  unlike  her  sister  as  a  lily  to  a 
rose. 

They  soon  became  the  fashion.  No  ball  or  soiree,  no 
dance  or  concert  was  considered  complete  without  them. 
Artists  sketched  them  together  as  Lily  and  Rose," 
"  Night  and  Morning,"  "Sunlight  and  Moonlight." 
Poets  indited  sonnets  to  them;  friends  and  admirers 
thronged  around  them.  -As  Beatrice  said,  with  a  deep- 
drawn  sigh  of  perfect  contentment,  "  This  is  life  " — and 
she  reveled  in  it. 

That  same  year  the  Earl  of  Airlie  attained  his  majority, 
and  became  the  center  of  all  fashionable  interest.  Whether 
he  would  marry  and  whom  he  would  be  likely  to  marry 
were  two  questions  that  interested  every  mother  and 
daughter  in  Belgravia.  There  had  not  been  such  an  eligi- 
ble parti  for  many  years.  The  savings  of  a  long  minority 
alone  amounted  to  a  splendid  fortune. 

The  young  earl  had  vast  estates  in  Scotland.  Lynnton 
Hall  and  Craig  Castle,  two  of  the  finest  seats  in  England, 
were  his.  His  mansion  in  Belgravia  was  the  envy  of  all 
who  saw  it. 

Young,  almost  fabulously  wealthy,  singularly  generous 
and  amiable,  the  young  Earl  of  Airlie  was  the  center  of  at 
least  half  a  hn^rJred  of  matrimonial  plots;  but  he  was  not 


D03A   THOBNE.  139 

easily  managed.  Mammas  with  blooming  daughters  found 
him  a  difficult  subject  He  laughed,  talked,  danced, 
walked,  and  rode,  as  society  wished  him  to  do;  bat  uj  one 
had  touched  his  heart,  or  even  his  fancy.  Lord  Airlie  was 
heart-whole,  and  there  seemed  no  prospect  of  his  ever  be. 
ing  anything  else.  Lady  Constance  Tachbrook,  the  pret- 
tiest, daintiest  coquette  in  London,  brought  all  her  artil- 
lery of  fascination  into  play,  but  without  success.  The 
beautiful  brunette,  Flora  Cranbourne,  had  laid  a  wager 
th:ir,  in  the  course  of  two  waltzes,  she  would  extract  three 
compliments  from  him:  but  she  failed  in  the  attempt. 
Lord  Airlie  was  pronounced  incorrigible. 

The  fact  was  that  his  lordship  had  been  sensibly  brought 
up.  He  intended  to  marry  when  he  could  find  some  one 
to  love  him  for  himself,  and  not  for  his  fortune.  This 
ideal  of  all  that  \vas  beautiful,  noble,  and  true  in  woman 
the  earl  was  always  searching  for,  but  as  yet  had  not  found. 

On  all  sides  he  had  heard  of  the  beauty  of  Lord  Earle's 
daughters,  but  it  did  not  interest  him.  He  had  been  hear- 
ing of,  seeing,  and  feeling  disappointed  in  beautiful  women 
for  some  years.  Many  people  made  the  point  of  meeting 
the  "  new  beauties,"  but  he  gave  himself  no  particular 
trouble.  They  were  like  every  one  else,  he  supposed. 

One  morning,  having  nothing  else  to  do,  Lord  Airlio 
went  to  a  fete  given  in  the  beautiful  grounds  of  ! 
Downhum.  He  went  early,  intending  to  remain  only  a 
ehort  time.  He  found  but  a  few  guests  had  arrived.  Aftir 
paying  the  proper  amount  of  homage  to  Lady  Downham, 
the  young  earl  wandered  off  into  the  grounds. 

It  was  all  very  pretty  and  pleasant,  but  he  had  seen  the 
same  before,  ana  was  rather  tired  of  it.  The  day  was  more 
Italian  than  English,  bright  and  sunny,  the  sky  blue,  tlv 
air  dear  and  filled  with  fragrance,  the  birds  singing  as  tboy 
do  sing  under  bright,  warm  skies. 

Flags  were  flying  from  numerous  tents,  bands  of  music 
were  stationed  in  different  parts  of  the  grounds,  the  fount- 
ains played  merrily  in  the  sunlit  air.     Lord  Airlie  w 
mechanically  on,  bowing  in  reply  to  the  salutations  he  re- 
ceived. 

A  pretty  little  bower,  a  perfect  thicket  of  roses,  caught 
his  attention.  From  it  one  could  see  all  over  the  lake,  with 
its  gay  pleasure-boats.  Lord  Airlie  sat  down,  believing 
'  •  i  be  ouite  alone:  but  before  he  had  removed  a 


1±0  DORA    THORNE. 

large  bongh  that  interfered  with  the  full  perfection  of  the 
riew  he  heard  voices  on  the  other  side  of  the  thick,  shel- 
tering rose-bower. 

He  listened  involuntarily,  for  one  of  the  voices  was  cleat 
and  pure,  the  other  more  richly  musical  than  any  he  had 
ever  heard — at  times  sweet  as  the  murmur  of  the  cushat 
dove,  and  again  ringing  joyously  and  brightly. 

"  I  hope  we  shall  not  have  to  wait  here  long,  Lillian/* 
the  blithe  voice  was  saying.  "  Lady  Helena  promised  to 
take  us  on  the  lake. " 

"  It  is  very  pleasant," .was  the  reply;  "  but  you  always 
like  to  be  in  the  very  center  of  gayety." 

"  Yes,"  said  Beatrice;  "  I  have  had  enough  solitude 
and  quiet  to  last  me  for  life.  Ah,  Lillian,  this  is  all  de- 
lightful. You  think  so,  but  do  not  admit  it  honestly  as 
I  do." 

There  was  a  faint,  musical  laugh,  and  then  the  sweet 
voice  resumed: 

"  I  am  charmed,  Lillian,  with  this  London  life;  this  is 
worth  calling  life — every  moment  is  a  golden  one.  If  there 
is  a  drawback,  it  consists  in  not  being  able  to  speak  one's 
mind." 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Lillian. 

"  Do  you  not  understand?"  was  the  reply.  "  Lady 
Helena  is  always  talking  to  me  about  cultivating  what  she 
calls  '  elegant  repose.'  Poor,  dear  grand  mamma!  her  per- 
fect idea  of  good  manners  seems  to  me  to  be  a  simple  ab- 
sence— in  society,  at  least — of  all  emotion  and  all  feeling. 
I,  for  one,  do  not  admire  the  nil  admirari  system." 

"  I  am  sure  Lady  Helena  admires  you,  Bee,"  said  her 
sister. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  careless  reply.  "  Only  imagine,  Lil- 
Jian,  yesterday,  when  Lady  Cairn  told  me  some  story  about 
a  favorite  young  friend  of  hers  the  tears  came  to  my  eyes. 
I  could  not  help  it,  although  the  drawing-room  was  full. 
Lady  Helena  told  me  1  should  repress  all  outward  emotion. 
Soon  after,  when  Lord  Dolchester  told  me  a  ridiculous 
story  about  Lady  Everton,  1  laughed — heartily,  1  must 
confess,  though  not  loudly — and  she  looked  at  me.  1 
shall  never  accomplish  *  elegant  repose/ 

"You  would  not  be  half  so  charming  if  you  did,"  re- 
plied her  sister. 

"  Then  it  is  so  tempting  to  say  at  times  what  one  really 


BORA    THORNE.  141 

thinks!  I  can  not  resist  it.  When  Lady  Everton  telis 
me,  with  that  tiresome  sinmer  of  hers,  that  she  really  won- 
ders at  herself,  1  long  to  tell  her  other  people  do  the  same 
thing.  1  should  enjoy,  for  once,  the  luxury  of  telling 
Mrs.  St.  John  that  people  flatter  her,  and  then  laugh  at 
her  affectation.  It  is  a  luxury  to  speak  the  truth  at  all 
times,  is  it  not,  Lily?  1  detest  everything  false,  even  a 
false  word;  therefore  I  fear  Lady  Helena  will  never  quite 
approve  of  my  manner." 

"  You  are  so  frank  and  fearless!  At  the  Elms,  do  you 
remember  how  every  one  seemed  to  feel  that  you  would  say 
just  the  right  thing  at  the  right  time?"  asked  Lillian. 

"  Do  not  mention  that  place,"  replied  Beatrice;  "  this 
life  is  so  different  I  like  it  so  much,  Lily — all  the  bright- 
ness and  gayety.  I  feel  good  and  contented  now.  I  was  al- 
ways restless  and  longing  for  life;  now  I  have  all  I  wish  for. " 

There  was  a  pause  then,  and  Lord  Airlie  longed  to  sea 
who  the  speakers  were — who  the  girl  was  that  spoke  such 
frank,  bright  words — that  loved  truth,  and  hated  all  things 
false — what  kind  of  face  accompanied  that  voice.  Sud- 
denly the  young  earl  remembered  that  he  was  listening, 
and  he  started  in  horror  from  his  seat.  He  pushed  aside 
the  clustering  roses.  At  first  he  saw  nothing  but  the  golden 
blossoms  of  a  drooping  laburnum;  then,  a  little  further  on, 
he  saw  a  fair  head  bending  over  some  fragrant  flowers; 
then  a  face  so  beautiful,  so  perfect,  that  something  like  a 
cry  of  surprise  came  from  Lord  Airlie's  lips. 

He  had  seen  many  beauties,  but  nothing  like  this  queen- 
ly young  girl.  Her  dark,  bright  eyes  were  full  of  fire  and 
light;  the  long  lashes  swept  her  cheek,  the  proud,  beauti- 
ful lips,  so  haughty  in  repose,  so  sweet  when  smiling,  were 
perfect  in  shape.  From  the  noble  brow  a  waving  mass  of 
durk  hair  rippled  over  a  white  neck  and  shapely  shoulders. 
It  was  a  face  to  think  and  dream  of,  peerless  in  its  vivid, 
exquisite  coloring  and  charmingly  molded  features,  lie 
hardly  noticed  the  fair-haired  girl. 

"  Who  can  she  be?"  thought  Lord  Airlie.  "  I  believed 
th:it.  1  hud  seen  every  beautiful  woman  in  London." 

i  with  having  seen  what  kind  of  face  accompanied 
the  voice,  the  young  carl  left  the  pretty  rose  thicket.  Hia 
friends  must  have  thought  him  slightly  deranged.  Ho  went 
about  aqking  every  one,  "  Who  is  here  to-day?"  Among 
others,  ho  saluted  Lord  Dolchoster  with  that  question. 


142  DORA    THORNE. 

"  I  can  scarcely  tell  you,"  replied  his  lordship.  "  I  am 
somewhat  in  a  puzzle.  If  you  want  to  know  who  is  the 
queen  of  the  fete,  1  can  tell  you.  It  is  Lord  Earle's 
daughter,  Miss  Beatrice  Earle.  She  is  over  jjere,  see,  with 
Lady  Downham." 

Looking  in  the  direction  indicated,  Lord  Airiib  3aw  the 
iace  that  haunted  him. 

"  Yes,"  said  Lord  Dolchester,  with  a  gay  laugh;  "  and 
if  I  were  young  and  unfettered,  she  would  not  be  Misb 
Earle  much  longer." 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

LORD  /GIRLIE  gazed  long  and  earnestly  at  the  beautiful 
girl  who  looked  so  utterly  unconscious  of  the  admiration 
she  excited. 

"I  must  ask  Lady  Downham  to  introduce  me,"  he  said 
to  himself,  wondering  whether  the  proud  face  would  smile 
upon  him,  and,  if  she  carried  into  practice  her  favorite 
tneory  of  saying  what  she  thought,  what  she  would  say  to 
him. 

Lady  Downham  smiled  when  the  young  earl  made  his 
request. 

44 1  have  been  besieged  by  gentlemen  requesting  intro- 
ductions to  Miss  Earle,"  she  said.  "  Contrary  to  your 
general  rule,  Lord  Airlie,  you  go  with  the  crowd." 

He  would  have  gone  anywhere  for  one  word  from  those 
perfect  lips.  Lady  Downham  led  him  to  the  spot  where 
Beatrice  stood,  and  in  a  few  courteous  words  introduced 
him  to  her. 

Lord  Airlie  was  celebrated  for  his  amiable,  pleasing  man- 
ner. He  always  knew  what  to  say  and  how  to  say  it,  but 
when  those  magnificent  eyes  looked  into  his  own,  the  young 
earl  stood  silent  and  abashed.  In  vain  he  tried  confusedly 
to  utter  a  few  words;  his  face  flushed,  and  Beatrice  looked 
at  him  in  wonder.  Could  this  man  gazing  so  ardently  at 
her  be  the  impenetrable  Lord  Airlie? 

He  managed  at  length  to  say  something  about  the  beauty 
of  the  grounds  and  the  brightness  of  the  day.  Plainly  as 
eyes  could  speak,  hers  asked:  Had  he  nothing  to  say? 

He  lingered  by  her  side,  charmed  and  fascinated  by  h«" 
grace;  she  talked  to  Lillian  and  to  Lady  Helena;  she  *e- 
ceived  the  lionise  offered  to  her  so  unconscious  of  his  pros 


DORA    THORNE.  143 

ence  and  his  regard  that  Lord  Airlie  was  piqued.  '  He  was 
not  accustomed  to  being  overlooked. 

"  Do  you  never  grow  tired  of  flowers  and  f^tes,  Miss 
Earle?"  he  asked  at  length. 

"  No,"  replied  Beatrice,  "  I  could  never  grow  tired  of 
flowers— who  could?  As  for  f6tes,  I  have  seen  few,  and 
have  liked  each  one  better  than  the  last." 

"  Perhaps  your  life  has  not  been,  like  mine,  spent 
among  them,"  he  said. 

"  1  have  lived  among  flowers,"  she  replied,  "  but  not 
among  fetes;  they  have  all  the  charm  of  novelty  for  me." 

"  I  should  like  to  enjoy  them  as  you  do,"  he  said.  "  I 
wish  you  would  teach  me,  Miss  Earle. " 

She  laughed  gnyly,  and  the  sound  of  that  laugh,  like  a 
sweet,  silvery  ohirne,  charmed  Lord  Airlie  still  more. 

He  found  out  the  prettiest  pleasure-boat,  and  persuaded 
Beatrice  to  let  him  row  her  across  the  lake.  He  gathered 
a  beautiful  water-lily  for  her.  When  they  landed  he  found 
out  a  seat  in  the  prettiest  spot  and  placed  her  there. 

Her  simple,  gay  manner  delighted  him.  He  had  never 
met  any  one  like  her.  She  did  not  blush,  or  look  con- 
scious, or  receive  his  attentions  with  the  half-fluttered  senti- 
mental air  common  to  most  young  ladies  of  his  acquaint- 
ance. 

She  never  appeared  to  remember  that  he  was  Lord  Air- 
lie,  nor  sought  by  any  artifice  to  keep  him  near  her.  The 
bright,  sunny  hours  seemed  to  pass  rapidly  as  a  dream. 
Long  before  the  day  ended  the  young  earl  said  to  himself 
that  he  had  met  his  fate;  that  if  it  took  years  to  win  her 
he  would  count  them  well  spent — that  in  all  the  wide  world 
she  was  the  wife  for  him. 

Lord  Earle  was  somewhat  amused  by  the  solicitude  the 
young  nobleman  showed  in  making  his  acquaintance  and 
consulting  his  tastes.  After  Lady  Downham's  f6te  he 
called  regularly  air  the  house.  Lady  Helena  liked  him, 
but  could  hardly  decide  which  of  her  grandchildren  it  was 
that  attracted  him. 

The  fastidious  young  earl,  who  had  smiled  at  the  idea  of 
love  and  had  disappointed  half  the  fashionable  mothers  in 
Belgravia,  f<>".:xl  himself  a  victim  at  last. 

He  was  diffident  of  his  own  powers,  hardly  daring  to 
hope  that  he  should  succeed  in  winning  the  most  beautiful 


144  BORA    THORNE. 

and  gifted  girl  in  London.  He  was  timid  in  her  presence, 
and  took  refuge  with  Lillian. 

All  fashionable  London  was  taken  by  surprise  when 
Lord  Airlie  threw  open  his  magnificent  house,  and,  under 
the  gracious  auspices  of  his  aunt,  Lady  Lecomte,  issued  in- 
vitations for  a  grand  ball. 

Many  were  the  conjectures,  and  great  was  the  excite- 
ment. Lord  Earle  smiled  as  he  showed  Lady  Helena  the 
cards  of  invitation. 

"  Of  course  you  will  go,"  he  said.  "  We  have  no  en- 
gagement for  that  day.  See  that  the  girls  look  their  best, 
mother. " 

He  felt  very  proud  of  his  daughters — Lillian,  looking  so 
fair  and  sweet  in  her  white  silk  dress  and  favorite  pearls! 
Beatrice,  like  a  queen,  in  a  cloud  of  white  lace,  with  co- 
quettish dashes  of  crimson.  The  Earle  diamonds  shone  in 
her  dark  hair,  clasped  the  fair  white  throat,  and  encircled 
the  beautiful  arms.  A  magnificent  pomegranate  blossom 
lay  in  the  bodice  of  her  dress,  and  she  carried  a  bouquet  of 
white  lilies  mixed  with  scarlet  verbena. 

The  excitement  as  to  the  ball  had  been  great.  It  seemed 
like  a  step  in  the  right  direction  at  last.  The  great  ques- 
tion was,  with  whom  would.  Lord  Airlie  open  the  ball? 
Every  girl  was  on  the  qui  vive. 

The  question  was  soon  decided.  When  Beatrice  Earle 
entered  the  room,  Lord  Airlie  went  straight  to  meet  her 
and  solicited  her  hand  for  the  first  dance.  She  did  not 
know  how  much  was  meant  by  that  one  action. 

He  wondered,  as  he  looked  upon  her,  the  queen  of  the 
most  brilliant  ball  of  the  season,  whether  she  would  ever 
love  him — if  it  was  within  the  bounds  of  possibility  that  she 
should  ever  care  for  him.  That  evening,  for  the  first  time, 
he  touched  the  proud  heart  of  Beatrice  Earle.  On  all  sides 
she  had  heard  nothing  but  praises  of  Lord  Airlie — his 
wealth,  his  talents,  his  handsome  person  and  chivalrous 
manner.  The  ladies  were  eloquent  in  praise  of  their  young 
host.  She  looked  at  him,  and  for  the  first  time  remarked 
the  noble,  dignified  carriage,  the  tall,  erect  figure,  the 
clear-cut  patrician  face— not  handsome  according  to  the 
rules  of  beauty,  but  from  the  truth  and  honor  written  there 
in  nature's  plainest  hand. 

Then  she  saw — and  it  struck  her  with  surprise — how 
Lord  Airlie,  so  courted  and  run  after,  sought  her  out 


DORA    THORNE.  145 

She  saw  smiles  on  friendly  faces,  and  heard  her    name 
mingled  with  hie. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Earle,"  said  Lady  Everton,  "  you  have 
accomplished  wonders — conquered  the  unconquerable.  1 
believe  every  eligible  young  lady  in  London  has  smiled 
upon  Lord  Airlie,  and  all  in  vain.  What  charm  have  you 
used  to  bring  him  to  your  feet?" 

"  I  did  not  know  that  he  was  at  my  feet,"  replied  Bea- 
trice, "  You  like  figurative  language,  Lady  Everton." 

"  You  will  find  I  am  right,"  returned  Lady  Everton, 
"  Remember  I  was  the  first  to  congratulate  you." 

Beatrice  wondered,  in  a  sweet,  vague  way,  if  there  could 
be  anything  in  it.  She  looked  again  at  Lord  Airlie.  Sure- 
ly any  one  might  be  proud  of  the  love  of  such  a  man.  He 
caught  her  glance,  and  her  face  flushed.  In  a  moment  he 
was  by  her  side. 

"  Miss  Earle,"  he  said,  eagerly,  "  you  told  me  the  other 
day  you  liked  flowers.  If  you  have  not  been  in  the  cdu- 
servatory,  may  I  escort  you  there?" 

She  silently  accepted  his  arm,  and  they  went  through 
the  magnificent  suite  of  rooms  into  the  cool,  fragrant  con- 
servatory. 

The  pretty  fountain  in  the  midst  rippled  musically,  and 
the  lamps  gleamed  like  pale  stars  among  masses  of  gorgeous 
color. 

Beatrice  was  almost  bewildered  by  the  profusion  of 
beautiful  plants.  Tier  upon  tier  of  superb  flowers  rose  un- 
til the  eye  was  dazzled  by  the  varied  hues  and  brightness — 
delicate  white  heaths  of  rare  perfection,  flaming  azaleas, 
i ufhsias  that  looked  like  showers  of  purple-red  wine.  The 
plant  that  charmed  Beatrice  most  was  one  from  far-off  In- 
dian climes — delicate,  perfumed  blossoms,  hanging  like 
golden  bells  from  thick,  sheltering  green  leaves.  Miss 
.Kurle  stood  before  it,  silent  in  sheer  admiration. 

"  You  like  that  flower?"  said  Lord  Airlie 

"  It  is  one  of  the  prettiest  I  ever  saw,"  she  replied. 

In  a  moment  he  gathered  the  fairest  sprays  from  the 
I  She  cried  out  in  dismay  at  the  destruction. 

44  Nay,"  said  Lord  Airlie,  '*  if  every  flower  here  could 
;  n  pressed  into  one  blossom,  it  would  hardly  be  a  fit- 
ting oltorir.g  to  yOa. " 

e  very  French  compliment,  con- 


146  DOHA    THORITE. 

tinned — "  I  shall  always  have  a  great  affection  for  that 
tree." 

*'  Why?"  she  asked,  unconsciously. 

"  Because  it  has  pleased  you/'  he  replied. 

They  stood  by  the  pretty  plant,  Beatrice  touching  the 
golden  bells  softly  with  her  fingers.  Something  of  the 
magic  of  the  scene  touched  her.  She  did  not  know  why 
the  fountain  rippled  so  musically,  why  the  flowers  seemed 
doubly  fair  as  her  young  lover  talked  to  her.  She  had 
been  loved.  She  had  heard  much  of  love,  but  she  herself 
had  never  known  what  it  really  meant.  She  did  not  know 
why,  after  a  time,  her  proud  bright  eyes  drooped,  and  had 
never  met  Lord  Airlie's  gaze,  why  her  face  flushed  and 
grew  pale,  why  his  words  woke  a  new,  strange,  beautiful 
music  in  her  heart — music  that  never  died  until — 

"  I  ask  for  one  spray — only  one — to  keep  in  memory  of 
this  pleasant  hour,'  said  Lord  Airlie,  after  a  pause. 

She  gave  him  a  spray  of  the  delicate  golden  bells. 

**  I  should  like  to  be  curious  and  rude,"  he  said,  "  and 
ask  if  you  ever  gave  any  one  a  flower  before?" 

"  No,"  she  replied. 

**  Then  1  shall  prize  this  doubly,"  he  assured  her. 

That  evening  Lord  Airlie  placed  the  golden  blossom  care- 
fully away.  The  time  came  when  he  would  have  parted 
with  any  treasure  on  earth  rather  than  that. 

But  his  question  had  suddenly  disturbed  Beatrice.  For 
a  moment  her  thoughts  flew  to  the  sea-shore  at  Kuutsford. 
The  present  faded  from  her;  she  saw  Hugh  Fernely's  face 
as  it  looked  when  he  offered  her  the  beautiful  lily.  Tha 
very  remembrance  of  it  made  her  shudder  as  though  seized 
with  deathly  cold — and  Lord  Airlie  saw  it. 

*'  You  are  cold,"  he  said;  "  how  careless  1  am  to  keep 
you  standing  here!"  He  helped  her  to  draw  the  costly 
lace  shawl  around  her  shoulders,  and  Beatrice  was  quickly 
herself  again^  and  they, returned  to  the  ball-room;  but 
Lord  Airlie  lingered  by  Miss  Earle. 

"  You  have  enjoyed  the  ball,  Beatrice,"  said  Lord 
Earle,  as  he  bade  his  daughters  good-night. 

**  I  have,  indeed,  papa,"  she  replied.  **  This  has  been 
the  happiest  evening  of  my  life. " 

"I  can  guess  why,"  thought  Lord  Earle,  as  he  kissed 
the  bright  face  upraised  to  him;  "  there  will  be  Uy 
wretched  underhand  love  business  there." 


DORA    THOBNE.  14? 

He  was  not  much  surprised  on  the  day  following  when 
Lord  Airlie  was  the  first  morning  caller,  and  the  last  to 
leave,  not  going  until  Lady  Helena  told  him  that  they 
should  all  be  at  the  opera  that  evening  and  should  perhaps 
see  him  there.  He  regretted  that  he  had  promised  Lady 
Morton  his  box  for  the  night,  when  Lady  Earle  felt  herself 
bound  to  ask  him  to  join  them  in  theirs. 

All  night  Beatrice  had  dreamed  of  the  true,  noble  face 
which  began  to  haunt  her.  She,  usually  BO  regardless  oi 
all  flattery,  remembered  every  word  Lord  Airlie  had  spoken. 
Could  it  be  true,  as  Lady  Everton  had  said,  that  he  cared 
for  her? 

Her  lover  would  have  been  spared  many  anxious  hours 
could  he  have  seen  how  the  golden  blossoms  were  tended 
and  cared  for.  Long  afterward  they  were  found  with  the 
little  treasures  which  young  girls  guard  so  carefully. 

When  Lord  Airlie  had  taken  his  departure  and  Lord 
Earle  found  himself  alone  with  his  mother,  he  turned  to 
her  with  the  happiest  look  she  had  ever  seen  upon  his 
face. 

"  That  seems  to  me  a  settled  affair,"  he  said.  "  Beatrice 
will  make  a  grand  countess — Lady  Airlie  of  Lynntou. 
He  is  the  finest  young  fellow  and  the  best  match  in  Eng- 
land. Ah,  mother,  my  folly  might  have  been  punished 
more  severely.  There  will  be  no  mesalliance  there." 

*'  No,"  said  Lady  Earle,  "  I  have  no  fears  for  Beatrice; 
she  is  too  proud  ever  to  do  wrong." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

IT  was  a  pretty  love  story,  although  told  in  crowded 
London  ball-rooms  instead  of  under  the  shade  of  green 
trees.  Beatrice  Earle  began  by  wondering  if  Lord  Airlie 
cared  for  her;  she  ended  oy  loving  him  herself. 

It  was  no  child's  play  this  time.  With  Beatrice,  to  love 
once  was  to  love  forever,  with  fervor  and  intensity  which 
cold  and  worldly  natures  can  not  even  understand. 

The  time  came  when  Lord  Airlie  stood  out  distinct  from 
all  the  world,  when  the  sound  of  his  name  was  like  music, 
when  she  saw  no  other  face,  heard  no  other  voice,  thought 
of  nothing  else  save  him.  He  began  to  think  there  might 
**«»  some  hope  for  him;  fhe  i»ro»\d,  beautiful  face  softened 


148  DORA    THORNE.  ' 

and  brightened  for  him  as  it  did  for  no  other,  and  the  glori« 
ous  dark  eyes  never  met  his  own,  the  frank,  bright  words 
died  away  in  his  presence.  Seeing  all  these  things,  Lord 
Airlie  felt  some  little  hope. 

For  the  first  time  he  felt  proud  and  pleased  with  the  no- 
ble fortune  and  high  rank  that  were  his  by  birthright.  He 
had  not  cared  much  for  them  before;  now  he  rejoiced  thafc 
he  could  lavish  wealth  and  luxury  upon  one  so  fair  and 
worthy  as  Beatrice  Earle. 

Lord  Airlie  was  not  a  confident  lover.  There  were  timeo 
when  he  felt  uncertain  as  to  whether  he  should  succeed. 
Perhaps  true  and  reverential  love  is  always  timid.  Lord 
Earle  had  smiled  to  himself  many  long  weeks  at  the 
"  pretty  play  "  enacted  before  him,  and  Lady  Helena  had 
wondered  when  the  young  man  would  "  speak  out "  long 
before  Lord  Airlie  himself  .presumed  to  think  that  the 
fairest  and  proudest  girl  in  Lonodn  would  accept  him. 

No  day  ever  passed  during  which  he  did  not  manage  to 
see  her.  He  was  indefatigable  in  finding  out  the  balls, 
soirees,  and  operas  she  would  attend.  He  was  her  constant 
shadow,  never  happy  out  of  her  sight,  thinking  of  her  all 
day,  dreaming  of  her  all  night,  yet  half  afraid  to  risk  all 
and  ask  her  to  be  his  wife,  lest  he  should  lose  her. 

To  uninterested  spectators  Lord  Airlie  was  a  handsome, 
kindly,  honorable  young  man.  Intellectual,  somewhat 
fastidious,  lavishly  generous,  a  great  patron  of  fine  arts;  to 
Beatrice  Earle  he  was  the  ideal  of  all  that  was  noble  and  to 
be  admired.  He  was  a  prince  among  men.  The  proud 
heart  was  conquered.  She  loved  him  and  said  to  herself 
that  she  would  rather  love  him  as  a  neglected  wife  than  be 
the  worshiped  wife  of  any  other  man. 

She  had  many  admirers;  "  the  beautiful  Miss  Earle  "  was 
the  belle  of  the  season.  Had  she  been  inclined  to  coquetrj 
or  flirtation  she  would  not  have  been  so  eagerly  sought 
after.  The  gentlemen  were  quite  as  much  charmed  by  her 
utter  indifference  and  haughty  acceptance  of  their  hom- 
age as  by  her  marvelous  beauty. 

At  times  Beatrice  felt  sure  that  Lord  Airlie  loved  her; 
then  a  sudden  fit  of  timidity  would  seize  her  young  lover, 
And  again  she  would  doubt  it.  One  thing  she  never  doubt- 
ed— her  own  love  for  him.  If  her  dreams  were  all  false, 
and  he  never  asked  her  to  be  his  wife,  she  said  to  herself 
that  she  would  never  be  the  wife  of  any  other  man* 


£2BA    THORNE.  149 

The  remembrance  of  Hugh  Fernely  crossed  her  mind  at 
times — not  very  often,  and  never  with  any  great  fear  or 
apprehension.  It  seemed  ta  her  more  like  a  dark,  disa- 
greeable dream  than  a  reality.  Could  it  be  possible  that 
she,  Beatrice  Earle,  the  daughter  of  that  proud,  noble 
father,  so  sternly  truthful,  so  honorable,  con!  1  i  ver  have 
been  so  mad  or  so  foolish?  The  very  remembrance  of  it 
made  the  beautiful  face  flush  crimson.  She  could  not  en 
dure  the  thought,  and  always  drove  it  hastily  from  her. 

The  fifteenth  of  July  was  drawing  near;  the  two  year* 
had  nearly  passed,  yet  she  was  not  afraid.  He  might  never 
return,  he  might  forget  her,  although,  remembering  his 
looks  and  words,  that,  she  feared,  could  not  be.  f 

If  he  went  to  Seabay — if  he  went  to  the  Elms,  it  was  not 
probable  that  he  would  ever  discover  her  whereabouts,  or 
follow  her  to  claim  the  fulfillment  of  her  absurd  promise. 
At  the  very  worst,  if  he  discovered  that  she  was  Lord  Earle's 
daughter,  she  believed  that  her  rank  and  position  would 
dazzle  and  frighten  him.  Rarely  as  these  thoughts  came 
to  her,  and  speedily  as  she  thrust  them  from  her,  she  consid- 
ered them  a  dear  price  for  the  little  novelty  and  excitement 
that  had  broken  the  dead  level  calm  of  life  at  the  Elms. 

Lord  Airlic,  debating  within  himself  whether  he  should 
risk,  during  the  whirl  and  turmoil  of  the  London  season, 
the  question  upon  which  the  happiness  of  his  life  depended, 
decided  that  he  would  wait  until  Lord  Earle  returned  to 
Earlftscourt,  and  follow  him  there. 

The  summer  began  to  grow  warm;  the  hawthorn  and 
apple  blossoms  had  all  died  away;  the  corn  waved  in  the 
Ik-Ids,  ripe  and  golden;  the  hay  was  all  gathered  in ;  the 
orchards  were  all  filled  with  fruit.  The  fifteenth  of  July — 
the  day  that  in  her  heart  Beatrice  Earle  had  half  feai 
was  past  and  gone.  She  had  been  nervous  and  half  fright- 
ened when  it  came,  starting  and  turning  deathly  pale  at  the 
sound  of  the  bell  or  of  rapid  footsteps.  She  laughed  at 
herself  when  the  day  ended.  How  was  it  likely  he  would  find 
her?  What  was  there  in  common  between  the  beautiful 
dauirhtor  of  Lord  Earle  and  Hugh  Fernely,  the  captain  of 
ling-vessel?  Nothing,  save  folly  and  a  foolish  promise 
rashly  asked  and  rashly  given. 

Three  days  before  Lord  Earle  left  London,  he  went  by 
appointment  to  meet  some  friends  at  Brookes's.  While 
there,  a  gentleman  entered  the  room  who  attracted  his  at- 


150  DORA    THORtfE. 

tention  most  forcibly— a  young  man  of  tall  and  stately  fig- 
ure,  with  a  noble  head,  magnificently  set  upon  broad 
shoulders;  a  fine,  manly  face,  with  proud,  mobile  features 
— at  times  all  fire  and  light,  the  eyes  clear  and  glowing, 
again,  gentle  as  the  face  of  a  smiling  woman.  Lord  Earle 
looked  at  him  attentively;  there  seemed  to  be  something 
familiar  in  the  outline  of  the  head  and  face,  the  haughty 
yet  graceful  carriage. 

"  Who  is  that?'  he  inquired  of  his  friend,  Captain  Lang- 
don.  "  I  have  seen  that  gentleman  before,  or  have  dreamed 
of  him." 

"Is  it  possible  that  you  do  not  know  him?"  cried  the 
captain.  "  That  is  Lionel  Dacre,  '  your  next  of  kin,'  if  I 
am  not  mistaken.'* 

Pleasure  and  pain  struggled  in  Lord  Earle '?  heart.  He 
remembered  Lionel  many  years  ago,  long  before  he  com- 
mitted the  foolish  act  that  had  cost  him  so  much.  Lionel 
had  spent  some  time  with  him  at  Earlescourt;  he  remem- 
bered a  handsome  and  high-spirited  boy,  proud  and  impet- 
uous, brave  to  rashness,  generous  to  a  fault;  a  fierce  hater  of 
everything  mean  and  underhand;  truthful  and  honorable 
— his  greatest  failing,  want  of  cool,  calm  thought 

Lionel  Dacre  was  poor  in  those  days;  now  he  was  heir  to 
Earlescourt,  heir  to  the  title  that,  with  all  his  strange 
political  notions,  Ronald  Earle  ever  held  in  high  honor; 
heir  to  the  grand  old  mansion  and  fair  domain  his  father 
had  prized  so  highly.  Pleasure  and  pain  were  strangely 
intermingled  in  his  heart  when  he  remembered  that  no  son 
of  his  would  ever  succeed  him,  that  he  should  never  train 
his  successor.  The  handsome  boy  that  had  grown  into  so 
fine  a  man  must  take  his  place  one  day. 

Lord  Earle  crossed  the  room,  and  going  up  to  the  young 
man,  laid  one  hand  gently  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Lionel/'  he  said,  "it  is  many  years  since  we  met. 
Have  you  no  remembrance  of  me?" 

The  frank,  clear  eyes  looked  straight  into  hie.  Lord 
Earle' s  heart  warmed  as  he  gazed  at  the  honest,  handsome 
face. 

"  Not  the  least  in  the  world,"  replied  Mr.  Dacre,  slowly. 
"  I  do  not  remember  ever  to  have  seen  you  before." 

''  Then  1  must  have  changed,"  said  Lord  Earle. 
14  When  I  saw  you  last,  Lionel,  you  were  not  much  more 


DORA    THORITE.  151 

than  twelve  years  old,  and  1  gave  you  a  *  tijj '  the  day  you 
Went  back  to  Eton.     Charlie  Villiers  was  with  you."" 

•'  Then  you  are  Lord  Earle,"  returned  Lionel.  "  1  came 
to  London  purposely  to  see  you,"  and  his  frank  face 
flushed,  and  he  held  out  his  hand  in  greeting. 

"  1  have  been  anxious  to  see  you,"  said  Lord  Earle; 
"  but  I  have  not  been  long  in  England.  We  must  be  bet- 
ter acquainted;  you  are  my  heir  at  law." 

"  Your  what?"  said  Mr.  Dacre,  wonderingly. 

44  Mj  heir,"  replied  Lord  Earle.  "  1  have  no  son;  my 
estates  are  entailed,  and  you  are  my  next  of  kin. " 

"  I  thought  you  had  half  a  dozen  heirs  and  heiresses,"  said 
Lionel.  "  1  remember  some  story  of  a  romantic  marriage. 
To-day  I  hear  of  nothing  but  the  beautiful  Miss  Earle. 

44  I  have  no  son,"  interrupted  Lord  Earle,  sadly.  "  I 
wrote  to  you  last  week,  asking  you  to  visit  me.  Have  you 
any  settled  home?" 

No,"  replied  the  young  man,  gayly.     "  My  mother  is 
at  Cowes,  and  I  have  been  staying  with  her. " 

"  Where  are  you  now?"  asked  Lord  Earle. 

44  1  am  with  Captain  Poyntz,  at  his  chambers;  1  prom- 
ised to  spend  some  days  with  him,"  replied  Lionel,  who  be- 
gan to  look  slightly  bewildered. 

**  I  must  not  ask  you  to  break  an  engagement,"  said 
Lord  Earle,  "  but  will  you  dine  with  us  this  evening,  and, 
•when  you  leave  Captain  Poyntz,  come  to  us?" 

44  I  shall  be  very  pleased, "said  Lionel,  and  the  two  gen- 
tlemen left  Brookes  s  together. 

44  I  must  introduce  you  to  Lady  Earle  and  m.r  daugh- 
ters," said  Ronald,  as  they  walked  along.  '*  1 1  ave  been 
so  long  absent  from  home  and  friends  that  it  seems  strange 
to  claim  relationship  with  any  one." 

44 1  could  never  understand  your  fancy  for  broiling  in 
Africa,  when  you  might  have  been  happier  at  home,"  said 
Lionel. 

"  Did  you  not  know?  Have  you  not  heard  why  1  went 
abroad?"  asked  Lord  Earle,  gravely. 

44  No,"  replied  Lionel.  44  Your  father  never  invited  me 
to  Earlescourt  after  you  left." 

In  a  few  words'Lord  Earle  told  his  heir  that  he  had  mar- 
against  his  father's  wish,  and  in  consequence  had  never 
been  pardoned. 

44  And  you  gave  np  everything,"  said  Lionel  Dacre— 


• 

15  &  DOE  A    THOBtfE. 

*'  home,  friends,  and  position,  for  the  love  ol  a  woman. 
•She  must  have  been  well  worth  loving." 

Lord  Earle  grew  pale,  as  with  sudden  pain.  Had  Dora 
been  so  well  worth  loving?  Had  she  been  worth  the  heavry 
price? 

"  You  are  my  heir/'  he  said,  gravely — "  one  of  my  own 
race;  before  you  enter  our  circle,  Lionel,  and  take  your 
place  there,  I  must  tell  you  that  my  wife  and  I  parted  years 
ago,  never  to  meet  again.  Do  not  mention  her  to  me — it 
pains  me. " 

Lionel  looked  at  the  sad  face;  he  could  understand  the 
shadows  there  now. 

"  I  will  not/'  he  said.     "  She  must  have  been — " 

"'  Not  one  word  more,"  interrupted  Lord  Earle.  "  In 
your  thoughts  lay  no  unjust  blame  on  her.  She  left  me  of 
her  own  free  will.  My  mother  lives  with  me;  she  will  be 
pleased  to  see  you.  Remember — seven  sharp. " 

"1  shall  not  forget/'  said  Lionel,  pained  at  ihe  sad 
words  and  the  sad  voice. 

As  Lord  Earle  went  home  for  the  first  time  during  the 
long  years,  a  softer  and  more  gentle  thought  of  Dora  came 
to  him.  "  She  must  have  been — "  What — what  did 
Lionel  suspect  of  her?  Could  it  be  that,  seeing  their  divid- 
ed lives,  people  judged  as  his  young  kinsman  had  judged 
— that  they  thought  Dora  to  blame — criminal,  perhaps? 
And  she  had  never  in  her  whole  life  given  one  thought  to 
any  other  than  himself;  nay,  her  very  errors — the  deed  he 
could  not  pardon — sprung  from  her  great  affection  for 
him.  Poor  Dora!  The  pretty,  blushing  face,  with  its 
sweet,  shy  eyes  and  rosy  lips,  came  before  him — the  artless, 
girlish  love,  the  tender  worship.  If  it  had  been  anything 
else,  any  other  fault,  Ronald  must  have  forgiven  her  in 
ttiat  hour.  But  his  whole  heart  recoiled  again  as  the 
hated  scene  rose  before  him. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  can  not  forgive  it.  I  can  not  forget 
it.  Men  shall  respect  Dora;  no  one  must  misjudge  her; 
but  1  can  not  take  her  to  my  heart  or  my  home  again,  la 
the  hour  of  death,"  he  murmured,  "  I  will  forgive  her." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

LADY  EAELE  thought  her  son  looked  graver  and  sadder 
that  day  than  she  had  ever  seen  him.     Shn  had  not  the 


DOfcA    THORNE.  153 

clew  to  his  reflections;  she  did  not  know  how  he  was 
haunted  by  the  thought  of  the  handsome,  gallant  young 
man  who  must  be  his  heir — how  he  regretted  that  no  son 
of  his  would  ever  succeed  him — how  proud  he  would  have 
been  of  a  son  like  Lionel.  He  had  but  two  children,  ani 
they  must  some  day  leave  Earlescourt  for  homes  of  their 
own.  The  grand  old  house,  the  fair  domain,  must  all  pass 
into  the  hands  of  strangers  unless  Lionel  married  one  of 
the  beautiful  girls  he  loved  so  dearly. 

Lady  Helena  understood  a  little  of  what  was  passing  in 
his  mind  when  he  told  her  that  he  had  met  Lionel  Dacre^ 
who  was  coming  to  dine  with  him  that  day. 

"  I  used  to  hope  Beatrice  might  like  him/'  said  Lady 
Earle;  "  but  that  will  never  be — Lord  Airlie  has  been  too 
quick.  I  hope  he  will  not  fall  in  love  with  her;  it  would 
ouly  end  in  disappointment" 

"  He  may  like  Lillian, "  said  Lord  Earle. 

"  Yes,"  assented  Lady  Helena.  "  Sweet  Lily —she  seems 
almost  too  pure  and  fair  for  this  dull  earth  of  ours." 

**  If  they  both  marry,  mother,"  said  Ronald,  sadly,  "  we 
shall  be  quite  alone." 

"Yes,  she  returned,  "  quite  alone;"  and  the  words 
smote  her  with  pain.  She  looked  at  the  handsome  face, 
with  its  sad,  worn  expression.  Was  life  indeed  all  over  for 
her  son — at  the  age,  too,  when  other  men  sunned  them- 
-  in  happiness;  when  a  loving  wife  should  have  graced 
his  home,  cheered  and  consoled  him,  shared  his  sorrows, 
crowned  his  life  with  love?  In  the  midst  of  his  wealth  and 
prosperity,  how  lonely  he  was!  Could  it  be  possible  that 
one  act  of  disobedience  should  have  entailed  such  sad  con- 
sequences? Ah,  if  years  ago  Ronald  had  listened  to  reason, 
to  wise  and  tender  counsel — if  he  had  but  given  up  Dora 
and  married  Valentine  Charteris,  how  different  his  life 
would  have  been,  how  replete  with  blessings  and  happiness, 
how  free  from  care! 

Lady  Earle's  eves  grew  dim  with  tears  as  these  tkoughU 
passed  through  her  mind.  She  went  up  to  him  and  laid 
her  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Ronald,"  she  said,  "  I  will  do  my  best  to  make  home 
happy  after  our  bonny  birds  are  caged.  For  your  sake,  I 
wish  things  had  been  different " 

"  Hush,  mother,"  he  replied,  gently.  "  Words  are  all 
useless.  1  must  reap  a^  1  have  sown;  the  fruits  of  diso- 


154  DOHA    THOENE. 

bedience  and  deceit  could  never  beget  happiness.  1  shaE 
always  believe  that  evil  deeds  bring  their  own  punishment. 
Do  not  pity  me — it  unnerves  me.  1  can  bear  my  fate. " 

Lady  Helena  was  pleased  to  see  Lionel  again.  She  had 
always  iiked  him,  and  rejoiced  now  in  his  glorious  man- 
hood. He  stood  before  the  two  sisters,  half  dazzled  by  their 
beauty.  The  fair  faces  smiled  upon  him;  pretty,  white 
hands  were  outstretched  to  meet  his  own. 

"  I  am  bewildered  by  my  good  fortune/'  he  said.  "  I  shall 
be  the  envy  of  every  man  in  London;  people  will  no  longer 
call  me  Lionel  Dacre.  I  shall  be  known  as  the  cousin  of 
'  Les  Demoiselles  Earle. '  I  have  neither  brother  nor  sister 
of  my  own.  Fancy  the  happiness  of  falling  into  the  midst 
of  such  a  family  group." 

"And  being  made  welcome  there!"  interrupted  Beatrice. 
Lionel  bowed  profoundly.  At  first  he  fancied  he  preferred 
this  brilliant,  beautiful  girl  to  her  fair,  gentle  sister.  Her 
frank,  fearless  talk  delighted  him.  After  the  general  run 
of  young  ladies — all  fashioned,  he  thought,  after  one  model 
— it  was  refreshing  to  meet  her.  Her  ideas  were  so  original. 

Lord  Airlie  joined  the  little  dinner-party,  and  then  Lionel 
Dacre  read  the  secret  which  Beatrice  hardly  owned  even  to 
herself. 

"  I  shall  not  be  shipwrecked  on  that  rock,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "  When  Beatrice  Earle  speaks  to  me  her  eyes 
meet  mine;  she  smiles,  and  does  not  seem  afraid  of  me; 
but  when  Lord  Airlie  speaks  she  turns  from  him,  and  her 
beautiful  eyes  droop.  She  evidently  cares  more  for  him 
than  for  all  the  world  besides." 

But  after  a  time  the  fair,  spirituelle  loveliness  of  Lillian 
stole  into  his  heart.  There  was  a  marked  difference  be- 
tween the  two  sisters.  Beatrice  took  one  by  storm,  so  to 
speak;  her  magnificent  beauty  and  queenly  grace  dazzled 
and  charmed  one.  With  Lillian  it  was  different.  Eclipsed 
at  first  sight  by  her  more  brilliant  sister,  her  fair  beauty 
grew  upon  one  by  degrees.  The  sweet  face,  the  thoughtful 
brow,  the  deep  dreamy  eyes,  the  golden  ripples  of  hair,  the 
etherial  expression  on  the  calm  features,  seemed  gradually 
to  reveal  their  charm.  Many  who  at  first  overlooked 
Lillian,  thinking  only  of  her  brilliant  sister,  ended  by  be- 
lieving her  to  be  the  more  beautiful  of  the  two. 

They  stood  together  that  evening,  the  two  sisters,  in  the 
presence  of  Lord  Airlie  and  Lionel  Dacre.  Beatrice  had 


DORA    THOBNE.  15ft 

been  singing,  and  the  air  seemed  still  to  vibrate  with  the 
music  of  her  passionate  voice. 

"  You  sing  like  a  siren,"  said  Mr.  Dacre;  he  felt  no  diffi- 
dence in  offering  so  old  a  compliment  to  his  kins-woman. 

"  No/'  replied  Beatrice;  "  I  may  sing  well — in  fact,  I 
believe  I  do.  My  heart  is  full  of  music,  and  it  overflows 
on  my  lips;  but  1  am  no  siren,  Mr.  Dacre.  No  one  ever 
heard  of  a  siren  with  dusky  hair  and  dark  brows  like  mine." 

*'  I  should  have  said  you  sing  like  an  enchantress/' inter- 
posed Lord  Airlie,  hoping  that  he  was  apter  in  his  compli- 
ments. 

"  You  have  been  equally  wrong,  my  lord,"  she  replied, 
but  she  did  not  laugh  at  him  as  she  had  done  at  Lionel. 
"  If  I  were  an  enchantress,"  she  continued,  "I  should 
just  wave  my  wand,  and  that  vase  of  flowers  would  come  to 
me;  as  it  is,  I  must  go  to  it.  Who  can  have  arranged  those 
flowers?  They  have  been  troubling  me  for  the  last  half 
hour." 

She  crossed  the  room,  and  took  from  a  small  side  table 
an  exquisite  vase  filled  with  blossoms. 

"  See,"  she  cried,  turning  to  Lionel,  "  white  heath, 
white  roses,  white  lilies,  intermixed  with  these  pale  gray 
flowers!  There  is  no  contrast  in  such  an  arrangement. 
Watch  the  difference  which  a  glowing  pomegranate  blossom 
or  a  scarlet  verbena  will  make. " 

"  You  do  not  like  such  quiet  harmony?"  said  Lionel, 
smiling,  thinking  how  characteristic  the  little  incident  was. 

*'  No,"  she  replied;  "give  me  striking  contrasts.  For 
many  years  the  web  of  my  life  was  gray-colored,  and  1 
longed  for  a  dash  of  scarlet  in  its  threads. " 

"  You  have  it  now,"  said  Mr.  Dacre,  quietly. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  as  she  turned  her  beautiful,  bright  face 
to  him;  **  I  have  it  now,  never  to  lose  it  again." 

Lord  Airlie,  looking  on  and  listening,  drinking  in  every 
word  that  fell  from  her  lips,  wondered  whether  love  was 
the  scarlet  thread  interwoven  with  her  life.  He  sighed 
deeply  as  he  said  to  himself  that  it  would  not  be;  this  bril- 
liant girl  could  never  care  for  him.  Beatrice  heard  the  sigh 
and  turned  to  him. 

"  Does  your  taste  resemble  mine,  Lord  Airlie?" 

"  1,"  interrupted  Lord  Airlie — "I  like  whatever  you 
like,  W\<*  Earle." 


153  CORA    THORNE. 

"  Yourself  best  of  all/'  whispered  Lionel  to  Beatrice  with 

a  smile. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

As  Mr.  Dacre  walked  home  that  evening,  he  thought 
long  and  anxiously  about  the  two  young  girls,  his  kins- 
women. What  was  the  mystery?  he  asked  himself — \vh;it 
skeleton  was  locked  away  in  the  gay  mansion?  Where  \\us 
Lord  Earle's  wife — the  lady  who  ought  to  have  been  at  thw 
head  of  his  table — the  mother  of  his  children?  Where  was 
she?  Why  was  her  place  empty?  Why  was  her  husband's 
face  shadowed  and  lined  with  care? 

"  Lillian  Earle  is  the  fairest  and  sweetest  girl  1  have  ever 
met,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  1  know  there  is  danger  for 
me  in  those  sweet,  true  eyes;  but  if  there  be  anything  wrong 
— if  the  mother  is  blameworthy — 1  will  fly  from  the  dan- 
ger. I  believe  in  hereditary  virtue  and  in  hereditary  vice. 
Before  1  fall  in  love  with  Lillian  I  must  know  her 
mother's  story." 

So  he  said,  and  he  meant  it.  There  was  no  means  of  ar- 
riving at  the  knowledge.  The  girls  spoke  at  times  of  their 
mother,  and  it  was  always  with  deep  love  and  respect. 
Lady  Helena  mentioned  her,  but  her  name  never  passed  the 
lips  of  Lord  Earle.  Lionel  Dacre  saw  no  way  of  obtaining 
information  in  the  matter. 

There  was  no  concealment  as  to  Dora's  abode.  Once,  by 
special  privilege,  he  was  invited  into  the  pretty  room  where 
the  ladies  sat  in  the  morning — a  cosy,  cheerful  room  into 
which  visitors  never  penetrated.  There,  upon  the  wall,  he 
saw  a  picture  framed — a  beautiful  landscape,  a  quiet  home- 
stead in  the  midst  of  rich,  green  meadows;  and  Lillian  told 
him,  with  a  smile,  that  was  the  Elms,  at  Kuutsford, 
"  where  mamma  lived." 

Lionel  was  too  true  a  gentleman  to  ask  why  she  lived 
there;  he  praised  the  painting,  and  then  turned  the  sub- 
ject. 

As  Lady  Earle  foresaw,  the  time  had  arrive  when  Dora's 
childern  partly  understood  there  was  a  division  in  the  fam- 
ilv,  a  breach  never  to  be  healed.  "Mamma  was  quite 
different  from  papa,"  they  said  to  each  other;  and  Lady 
Helena  told  them  their  mother  did  not  like  fashion  and 
gayety,  that  she  had  been  simply  brought  up,  used  always 
to  quietness  and  solitude,  so  that  in  all  probability  she 
Would  never  come  to  Earlescourt. 


DORA  THORNE:  157 

But  as  ^ime  went  on,  and  Beatrice  began  to  understand 
more  of  the  great  world,  she  had  an  instinctive  idea  of  the 
truth.  It  came  to  her  by  slow  degrees.  Her  father  had 
married  beneath  him,  and  her  mother  had  no  home  in  the 
st:it  ely  hall  of  Earlescourt.  At  first  violent  indignation 
seized  her;  then  calmer  reflection  told  her  she  could  not 
judge  correctly.  She  did  not  know  whether  Lord  Earle  had 
left  his  wife,  or  whether  her  mother  had  refused  to  live 
with  him. 

It  was  the  first  cloud  that  shadowed  the  life  of  Lord 
Earle's  beautiful  daughter.  The  discovery  did  not  diminish 
her  love  for  the  quiet,  sad  mother,  whose  youth  and  beauty 
had  faded  so  soon.  If  possible,  she  loved  her  more;  there 
was  a  pitying  tenderness  in  her  affection. 

"  Poor  mamma!"  thought  the  young  girl — "  poor, 
gentle,  mamma!  I  must  be  doubly  kind  to  her,  and  love 
her  better  than  ever." 

Dora  did  not  understand  how  it  happened  that  her  beau- 
tiful Beatrice  wrote  so  constantly  and  so  fondly  to  her — hovr 
it  happened  that  week  after  week  costly  presents  found 
tlu-ir  way  to  the  Elms. 

"  The  child  must  spend  all  her  pocket-money  on  me," 
she  said  to  herself.  "  How  well  and  dearly  she  loves  me—' 
my  beautiful  Beatrice!" 

Lady  Helena  remembered  the  depth  of  her  mother's 
love.  She  pitied  the  lonely,  unloved  wife,  deprived  of  hus- 
band and  children.  She  did  all  in  her  power  to  console 
hi T.  She  wrote  long  letters,  telling  Dora  how  groatly  her 
children  were  admired,  and  how  she  would  like  their  mother 
to  witness  their  triumph.  She  told  how  many  conquests 
Beatrice  hail  made;  how  the  proud  and  exclusive  Lord  Airlie 
was  always  near  her,  and  that  Beatrice,  of  her  own  fancy, 
liked  him  butter  than  any  one  else. 

"  Neither  Lord  Earle  nor  myself  could  wish  a  more 
brilliant  future  for  Beatrice,"  wrote  Lady  Helena. 
Lady  Airlie  of  Lynnton,  she  will  be  placed  as  her  birth  and 
beauty  deserve. 

But  even  Lady  Helena  was  startled  when  she  read  Dora's 
reply.     It  was  a  wild  prayer  that  her  child  should  be  saved 
— spared  the  deadlv  perils  of  love  and  marriage— left  to 
her  innocent         'h. 

. ''  wrote  poor  Dora,  "  and  never 
be  patient,  gentle,  And  true.     It  is 


158  DOBA    THOBBTE. 

ever  self  they  worship — self-reflected  in  the  woman  thaj 
*ove.  Oh,  Lady  Helena,  let  my  child  be  spared!  Let  no 
Bo-called  love  come  near  her!  Love  found  me  out  in  my 
humble  home,  and  wrecked  all  my  life.  Do  not  let  my 
bright,  beautiful  Beatrice  suffer  as  I  have  done.  1  would 
rather  fold  my  darlings  in  my  arms  and  lie  down  with  them 
to  die  than  live  to  see  them  pass  through  the  cruel  mockery 
of  love  and  sorrow  which  I  have  endured.  Lady  Helena, 
do  not  laugh;  your  letter  distressed  me.  I  dreamed  last 
night,  after  reading  it,  that  I  placed  a  wedding-veil  on  my 
darling's  head,  when,  as  it  fell  round  her,  it  changed  sud- 
denly into  a  shroud.  A  mother's  love  is  true,  and  mine 
tells  me  that  Beatrice  is  in  danger." 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

'*  I  HAVE  been  abroad  long  enough,"  said  Lord  Earle, 
in  reply  to  some  remark  made  by  Lady  Helena.  "  The 
girls  do  not  care  for  the  sea — Beatrice  dislikes  it  even;  so 
I  think  we  can  not  do  better  than  to  return  to  Earlescourt. 
It  may  not  be  quite  fashionable,  but  it  will  be  very  pleas- 
ant."' 

"  Yes,"  said  Lady  Earle;  "  there  is  no  place  1  love  so 
well  as  home.  We  owe  our  neighbors  something,  too.  1 
am  almost  ashamed  when  I  remember  how  noted  Earles- 
court once  was  for  its  gay  and  pleasant  hospitality.  We 
must  introduce  the  girls  to  our  neighbors.  1  can  foresee 
quite  a  cheerful  winter." 

"Let  us  get  over  the  summer  and  autumn,"  said  Ron- 
ald with  a  smile,  "  then  we  will  look  the  winter  bravely  in 
the  face.  I  suppose,  mother,  you  can  guess  who  has  man- 
aged to  procure  an  invitation  to  Earlescourt!" 

"  Lorcl  Airlie?"  asked  Lady  Helena. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  laughing  reply.  "  It  did  me  good, 
mother — it  made  me  feel  young  and  happy  again  to  see 
and  hear  him.  His  handsome,  frank  face  clouded  when  I 
told  him  we  were  going;  then  he  sighed — said  London 
would  be  like  a  desert — declared  he  could  not  go  to  Lynn- 
ton,  the  place  was  full  of  work-people.  He  did  not  like 
Scotland,  and  was  as  homeless  as  a  wealthy  young  peer 
with  several  estates  could  well  be.  I  allowed  him  to  be- 
wilder himself  with  confused  excuses  and  blunders,  and 


DOBA    THORNE.  159 

then  asked  him  to  join  us  at  Earlescourt.  He  almost 
'  jumped  for  joy,'  as  the  children  say.  He  will  follow  us 
in  a  week  or  ten  days.  Lionel  will  come  with  us." 

"  I  am  very  pleased,"  said  Lady  Earle.  "  Next  to  you, 
Ronald,  I  love  Lionel  Dacre;  his  frank,  proud,  fearless 
disposition  has  a  great  charm  for  me.  He  is  certainly  like 
Beatrice.  How  he  detests  everything  false,  just  as  she 
does!" 

"  Yes,"  said  Ronald,  gravely;  "  1  am  proud  of  my 
children.  There  is  no  taint  of  untruth  or  deceit  there, 
mother;  they  are  worthy  of  their  race.  1  consider  Beatrice 
the  noblest  girl  1  have  ever  known;  and  I  love  my  sweet 
Lily  just  as  well." 

"  You  would  not  like  to  part  with  them  now?"  said 
Lady  Earle. 

"  I  would  sooner  part  with  my  life,"  he  replied.  "  I 
am  not  given  to  strong  expressions,  mother,  but  even  you 
could  never  guess  how  my  life  is  bound  up  in  theirs." 

"  Then  let  me  say  one  word,  Ronald,  said  his  motherj 
*'  remember  Dora  loves  them  as  dearly  and  as  deeply  as 
you  do.  Just  think  for  a  moment  what  it  has  cost  her  to 
give  them  up  to  you!  She  must  see  them  soon,  with  your 
full  consent  and  permission.  They  can  go  to  her  if  you 
will." 

"  You  are  right,  mother,"  he  said,  after  a  few  minutes. 
".They  are  Dora's  children,  and  she  ought  to  see  them; 
but  they  must  not  return  to  that  farm-house — I  can  not 
bear  the  thought  of  it.  Surely  they  can  meet  on  neutral 
ground — at  your  house,  say,  or  in  Londov.;  and  let  it  be  at 
Christmas." 

"  It  had  better  be  in  London,"  said  Lady  Helena.  "  1 
will  write  to  Dora,  and  tell  her.  The  very  anticipation  of 
it  will  make  her  happy  until  the  time  arrives — she  loves 
hei  children  so  dearly." 

And  again  a  softened  thought  of  Dora  came  to  hor  hus- 
band. Of  course  she  loved  them.  The  little  villa  at  Flor- 
ence rose  before  him;  he  saw  vividly,  as  though  he  had  left 
it  but  yesterday,  the  pretty  vine-shaded  room  where  Dora 
used  to  sit  nursing  the  little  ones.  He  remembered  her 
sweet  patience,  her  never-failing,  gentle  love.  Had  he 
done  right  to  wound  that  sad  heart  afresh  by  taking  those 
children  from  her?  Was  it  a  iust  and  fitting  reward  for 
the  u-:it,fhfuJ  Jove  and  care  of  those  lonely  vears? 


160  DORA    THORITE. 

He  would  fain  have  pardoned  her,  but  he  could  not;  ancl 
he  said  to  himself  again:  "  In  the  hour  of  death!  I  will 
forgive  her  then." 

******* 

The  glowing  August,  so  hot  and  dusty  in  London,  was 
like  a  dream  of  beauty  at  Earlescourt.  The  tall  trees  gave 
gratei»l  shelter,  baffling  the  sun's  warm  rays;  the  golden 
corn  stood  in  the  broad  fields  ready  for  the  sickle;  the 
hedge-rows  were  filled  with  flowers.  The  beech-trees  in 
the  park  were  in  full  perfection.  Fruit  hung  ripe  and 
heavy  in  the  orchards.  1 1  was  no  longer  the  blossoming 
promise  of  spring,  but  the  perfect  glory  of  summer. 

For  many  long  years  Earlescourt  had  not  been  so  gay. 
The  whole  country-side  rang  with  fashionable  intelligence. 
The  house  was  filled  with  visitors,  Lord  Airlie  heading  the 
list.  Lionel  Dacre,  thinking  but  little  of  the  time  when 
the  grand  old  place  would  be  his  own,  was  full  of  life  and 
spirits. 

Long  arrears  of  hospitalities  and  festivities  had  to  be  re- 
paid to  the  neighborhood.  Beatrice  and  Lillian  had  to 
make  their  debut  there.  Lady  Helena  decided  upon  com- 
mencing the  programme  with  a  grand  dinner-party,  to  be 
followed  by  a  bull  in  the  evening.  Ronald  said  something 
about  the  weather  being  warm  for  dancing. 

'*  We  danced  in  London,  papa,"  said  Beatrice,  "  when 
the  heat  was  so  great  that  I  should  not  have  felt  any  sur- 
prise if  the  whole  roomful  of  people  had  dissolved.  Here 
we  have  space — large,  cool  rooms,  fresh  air,  a  conserva- 
tory as  large  as  a  London  house;  it  will  be  child's  play  in 
comparison  with  what  we  have  gone  through." 

"  Miss  Earle  is  quite  right,"  said  Lord  Airlie.  **  A  ball 
during  the  season  in  London  is  a  toil;  here  it  would  be 
nothing  but  a  pleasure." 

"  Then  a  ball  let  it  be/'  said  Lord  Earle.  "  Lillian, 
make  out  a  list  of  invitations,  and  head  it  with  Sir  Harry 
and  Lady  Laurence,  of  Holtham  Hall.  That  reminds  me, 
their  eldest  son  Gaspar  came  home  yesterday  from  Ger- 
many; do  not  forget  to  include  him." 

"Little  Gaspar,"  cried  Lady  Helena — "has  he  re- 
turned? I  should  like  to  see  him. " 

"  Little  Gaspar,"  said  Lord  Earle,  laughing,  "  is  six  feet 
high  now,  mother.  You  forget  bow  time  flies;  he  is  taller 


DORA    THOBNE.  161 

than  Lionel,  and  a  fine,  handsome  young  fellow  he  is.  He 
will  be  quite  an  acquisition." 

Lord  Earle  was  too  much  engrossed  to  remark  the  un- 
easiness his  few  words  had  caused.  Lord  Airlie  winced  ai 
the  idea  of  a  rival — a  handsome  man,  and  sentimental, 
too,  as  all  those  people  educated  in  Germany  are! 

"  1  can  not  understand  what  possesses  English  people  to 
send  their  sons  abroad  for  education,"  he  said  to  Beatrice 
—  "  and  to  Germany  of  all  places  in  the  world." 

44  Why  should  they  not?     she  asked. 

"The  people  are  so  absurdly  sentimental,"  he  re- 
plied. "  Whenever  1  see  a  man  with  long  hair  and  dreamy 
eyes,  I  know  he  is  a  German." 

44  You  are  unjust,"  said  Beatrice,  as  she  left  him  to  join 
Lillian. 

"  You  are  jealous,"  said  Lionel,  who  had  overheard  the 
conversation.  4"  Look  out  for  a  rival  in  the  lists,  my 
lord." 

"  1  wish  this  tiresome  ball  were  over,"  aighed  Lord 
Airlie.  4<  I  shall  have  no  chance  of  speaking  while  it  is  on 
the  tapis. " 

But  he  soon  forgot  his  chagrin.  The  formidable  Gaspar 
appeared  that  very  morning,  and,  although  Lord  Airlie 
could  perceive  that  he  was  at  once  smitten  with  Beatrice's 
charms,  he  also  saw  that  she  paid  no  heed  whatever  to 
the  new-comer;  indeed,  after  a  few  words  of  courteous 
greeting,  she  returned  to  the  point  under  discussion — what 
flowers  would  look  best  in  the  ball-room. 

"If  we  have  flowers  at  all,"  she  said,  imperiously,  "  let 
them  be  a  gorgeous  mass  of  bloom — something  worth  look- 
ing at;  not  a  few  pale  blossoms  standing  here  and  there 
like  4  white  sentinels;'  let  us  have  flowers  full  of  life  and 
fragrance.  Lillian,  you  know  what  I  mean;  you  remem- 
ber Lady  Manton's  flowers — tier  after  tier  of  magnificent 
color." 

44  You  like  to  do  everything  en  reine,  Beatrice,"  said 
Lady  Helena,  with  a  well-pleased  smile. 

44  If  you  have  not  flowers  sufficient,  Miss  Earle,"  said 
Lord  Airlie,  44 1  will  send  to  Lynnton.  My  gardener  con- 
siders himself  a  past  master  of  his  art." 

4<  My  dear  Lord  Airlio,"  said  Lady  Earle,  **  we  have 
flowers  in  profusion.  You  have  not  been  through  the 
conservator i>«j.  It  would  while  away  the  morning-  r.leaa- 


168  DORA    THOBNE. 

antly  for  you  all  Beatrice,  select  what  flowers  you  will, 
and  have  them  arranged  as  you  like." 

"  See,"  said  the  triumphant  beauty,  *'  what  a  grand 
thing  a  strong  will  is!  Imagine  papa's  saying  he  thought 
thirty  or  forty  plants  in  full  flower  would  be  sufficient! 
We  will  surprise  him.  If  the  gardener  loses  his  reason,  as 
Lady  Earle  seems  to  think  probable,  he  must  be  taken  care 
of." 

Lord  Airlie  loved  Beatrice  best  in  such  moods;  imperious 
and  piquant,  melting  suddenly  into  little  gleams  of  tender- 
ness, then  taking  ref  age  in  icy  coldness  and  sunny  laughter. 
Beautiful,  dazzling,  capricious,  changing  almost  every  min- 
ute, yet  charming  as  she  changed,  he  would  not  have 
bartered  one  of  her  proudest  smiles  or  least  words  for 
anything  on  earth. 

He  never  forgot  that  morning  spent  among  the  flowers. 
It  was  a  glimpse  of  elysium  to  him.  The  way  in  which 
Beatrice  contrived  to  do  as  she  liked  amused  him;  her  face 
looked  fairer  than  ever  among  the  blooming  flowers. 

*'  There  is  the  bell  for  lunch,"  she  said  at  last.  "  We 
have  been  here  nearly  three  hours." 

"  Most  of  your  attendants  look  slightly  deranged,"  said 
Lionel.  "  1  am  sure  1  saw  poor  Donald  weeping  over  his 
favorite  plants.  He  told  me  confidentially  they  would  be 
fit  for  nothing  after  the  heat  of  the  hall-room." 

"  J  shall  invent  some  means  of  consolation  for  him,"  she 
replied.  '*  I  like  dancing  among  the  bright  flowers.  Why 
should  we  not  have  everything  gay  and  bright  and  beauti- 
ful, if  we  can?" 

"  Why  not?"  said  Lionel,  gravely.  "  Ah,  Miss  Earle, 
why  are  we  not  always  young  and  beautiful  and  happy? 
Why  must  flowers  die,  beauty  fade,  love  grow  old?  Ask  a 
philosopher — do  not  ask  me.  I  know  the  answer,  but  let 
some  one  else  give  it  to  you." 

"  Philosophy  does  not  interest  me  at  present,"  she  said. 
'*  I  like  flowers,  music,  and  dancing  better.  I  hope  I  shall 
never  tire  of  them;  sometimes — but  that  i«  only  when  I 
am  serious  or  tired — I  feel  that  1  shall  never  live  to  grow 
old.  I  can  not  imagine  my  eyes  dim  or  my  hair  gray.  I 
can  not  imagine  my  heart  beating  slowly.  1  can  not  real- 
ize a  day  wh«n  the  warmth  and  beauty  of  life  will  have 
changed  into  cold  and  dullness." 

Even  as  she  spoke  a  gentle  am  stole  round  her,  a  c&ir 


DORA    THORNE.  163 

spirituetle  face,  eyes  full  of  clear,  saintly  light  looked  into 
hers,  and  a  soft  voice  whispered  to  her  of  something  not 
earthl}',  not  of  flowers  and  music,  not  of  life  and  gayety, 
something  far  beyond  these,  and  the  proud  eyes  for  a  mo- 
ment grew  dim  with  tears. 

"  Lily/'  she  said,  "  1  am  not  so  good  as  you,  but  I  will 
endeavor  to  be.  Let  me  enjoy  myself  first,  just  for  a  short 
time;  I  will  be  good,  dear." 

Her  mood  changed  then,  and  Lord  Airlie  thought  her 
more  entrancing  than  ever. 

"  That  is  the  kind  of  wife  I  want,"  thought  Lionel  Dacre 
to  himself,  looking  at  Lillian — "  some  one  to  guide  me,  to 
teach  me.  Ah,  if  women  only  understood  their  mission! 
That  girl  looked  as  I  can  imagine  only  guardian  angels 
look — -I  wish  she  would  be  mine." 

Lord  Airlie  left  the  conservatory,  with  its  thousand 
flowers,  more  in  love  than  ever. 

"  He  would  wait,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  until  the  ball 
was  over;  then  he  would  ask  Beatrice  Earle  to  be  his  wife. 
If  she  refused  him,  he  would  go  far  away  where  no  one 
knew  him;  if  she  accepted  him,  he  would  be  her  devoted 
slave.  She  should  be  a  queen,  and  he  would  be  her 
knight. " 

Ali!  what  thanks  would  he  return  to  Heaven  if  so  great 
4  blessing  should  be  his. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

LORD  AIRLIE  muttered  something  that  was  not  a  bene- 
diction when,  on  the  morning  following,  Gaspar  Laurence 
made  his  appearance  at  Earlescourt. 

44  We  can  not  receive  visitors  this  morning/'  said  Bea- 
trice, half  impatiently.  "  Mr.  Laurence  must  have  for- 
gotten the  ball  to-night/' 

But  Mr.  Laurence  had  forgotten  nothing  of  the  kind.  It 
was  a  delicious  morning,  the  sun  shining  brightly  and  clear- 
ly, the  westerly  breeze  blowing  fresh  and  cool.  He  had 
thought  it  likely  that  the  young  ladies  would  spend  the 
morning  out-of-doors,  and  begged  permission  to  join  them. 

Lady  Earle  was  pleased  with  the  idea.  Lord  Airlie  men- 
tioned something  about  fatigue,  but  he  was  overruled. 

"  Stroll  in  the  grounds."  said  Lady  Helena;  "  go  down 


164  DOHA    THOENE. 

by  the  lake;  1  will  join  you  there  afterward.  A  few  hours 
in  the  fresh  air  will  be  the  best  preparation  for  the  ball." 

They  went  together.  Gaspar's  preference  soon  became 
apparent — he  would  not  leave  Beatrice,  aiid  Lord  Airlie  de- 
votedly wished  him  at  the  antipodes. 

They  sat  down  under  the  shade  of  a  tall  lady-birch,  tha 
deep,  sunlit  lake  shining  through  the  trees.  Then  Gas- 
par,  taking  a  little  book  in  his  hands,  asked: 

"  Have  you  read  '  Undine/  Miss  Earle — Fouque's  *  Un- 
dine?' " 

"  No,"  she  replied;  "  1  am  half  ashamed  to  say  so." 

**  It  is  the  sweetest,  saddest  story  ever  written/'  he  con- 
tinued. "  This  is  just  the  morning  for  it.  May  1  read  it 
to  you?" 

There  was  a  general  and  pleased  murmur  of  assent 
Lord  Airlie  muttered  to  himself  that  he  knew  the  fellow 
would  air  hia  German  sentiment — at  their  expense. 

Still  it  was  very  pleasant.  There  was  a  gentle  ripple  on 
the  deep  lake,  the  water  washed  among  the  tall  reeds,  and 
splashed  with  a  faint,  musical  murmur  on  the  stones;  the 
thick  leafy  branches  rustled  in  the  wind;  the  birds  sung  in 
the  trees. 

Caspar  Laurence  read  well;  his  voice  was  clear  and  dis- 
tinct; not  a  word  of  the  beautiful  story  was  lost. 

Beatrice  listened  like  one  in  a  dream.  Her  proud,  bright 
face  softened,  her  magnificent  eyes  grew  tender  and  half 
sad.  Gaspar  read  on — of  the  fair  and  lovely  maiden,  of 
the  handsome  young  knight  and  his  love,  of  the  water- 
sprite,  grim  old  Kuhlehorn,  and  the  cottage  where  Undine 
dwelt,  of  the  knight's  marriage,  and  then  of  proud,  beau- 
tiful Bertha. 

The  rippling  of  the  lake  and  the  singing  of  the  birds 
seemed  like  an  accompaniment  to  the  words,  so  full  of 
pathos.  Then  Gaspar  came  to  Bertha's  love  for  the  knight 
— their  journey  on  the  river — to  the  huge  hand  rising  and 
snatching  the  jewel  from  Undine's  soft  fingers,  while  the 
knight's  love  grew  cold. 

Even  the  waters  of  the  lake  seemed  to  sob  and  sigh  as 
Gaspar  read  on  of  sweet,  sad  Undine  and  of  her  unhappy 
love,  of  Bertha's  proud  triumph,  her  marriage  with  the 
knight,  and  the  last,  most  beautiful  scene  of  all — Undine 
rising  from  the  unsealed  fountain  and  going  to  claim  her 
love. 


iX>HA    THORNK,  165 

"  How  exquisite!"  said  Beatrice,  drawing  a  long,  deep 
breath.  "  I  did  not  know  there  was  such  a  story  in  the 
world.  That  is  indeed  a  creation  of  genius.  I  shall  nevei 
forget  Undine. " 

Her  eyes  wandered  to  the  sweet  spirit  uelle  face  and  fair, 
golden  hair  of  her  sister.  Lionel  Dacre's  glance  followed 
hers. 

"  I  know  what  you  are  thinking  of,"  he  said — "  Misi 
Lillian  is  a  perfect  Undine.  I  can  fancy  her,  with  clasped 
hands  and  sad  eyes,  standing  between  the  knight  and 
Bertha,  or  rising  with  shadowy  robes  from  the  open  fount- 
ain." 

"It  is  a  beautiful  creation,"  said  Beatrice,  gently. 
"  Lillian  would  be  an  ideal  Undine — she  is  just  as  gentle, 
as  fair,  as  true.  1  am  like  Bertha,  I  suppose;  at  least  1 
know  I  prefer  my 'own  way  and  my  own  will." 

44  You  should  give  some  good  artist  a  commission  to 
paint  a  picture,"  said  Lord  Airlie.  4<  Choose  the  scene  in 
the  boat — Undine  bending  over  the  water,  a  dreamy  ex- 
pression on  her  fair  face;  Bertha  sitting  by  the  knight, 
proud,  bright,  and  half  scornful  of  her  companion.  Im- 
agine the  transparent  water — Undine's  little  hand  half  lost 
in  it,  and  the  giant  fingers  clasping  hers.  I  wonder  that 
an  artist  has  never  painted,  that  scene/' 

"  Who  would  do  for  the  knight?"  said  Beatrice.  *'  Lil- 
lian and  1  will  never  dispute  over  a  knight." 

44  Artists  would  find  some  difficulty  in  that  picture," 
said  Lillian.  "  How  could  one  cicthe  a  beautiful  ideal  like 
Undine?  Sweeping  robes  and  waving  plumes  might  suit 
Bertha;  but  how  could  one  depict  Undine?" 

"  The  knight  is  the  difficulty,"  laughed  Lionel. 

44  Why  should  we  not  go  out  on  the  lake  now?"  said 
Caspar;  "  I  will  rmv. " 

"1  have  been  wishing  for  the  last  ten  minutes,"  replied 
Beatrice,  4t  to  be  upon  the  lake.  I  want  to  put  my  hand 
in  the  water  and  see  what  comes. " 

Gaspar  was  not  long  in  getting  a  pleasure-boat  out  of 
the  boat-house.  Lionel  managed  to  secure  a  seat  near  his 
Undine,  and  Lord  Airlie  by  his  Beatrice. 

It  was  even  more  pleasant  on  the  water  than  on  the  land- 
thu  boat  moved  easily  along,  the  fresh,  clear  breeze  help- 
ing it 


166  DOEA    THORNE. 

"  Steer  for  those  pretty  water-lilies/'  said  Beatrice, 
**  they  look  so  fresh  and  shining  in  the  sun. " 

And  as  they  floated  over  the  water,  her  thoughts  went 
back  to  that  May  morning  when  Lillian  sat  upon  the  cliffs 
and  sketched  the  white  far-off  sails.  How  distant  it 
seemed!  She  longed  then  for  life.  Now  every  sweet  gift 
which  life  could  bestow  was  hers,  crowned  with  love.  Yet 
she  sighed  as  Hugh  Fernely's  face  rose  before  her.  If  she 
could  but  forget  it!  After  all  it  had  been  on  her  side  but 
a  mockery  of  love.  Yet  another  sigh  broke  from  her  lips, 
and  then  Lord  Airlie  looked  anxiously  at  her. 

"  Does  anything  trouble  yon,  Miss  Earle?"  he  asked. 
44 1  never  remember  to  have  seen  you  so  serious  before." 

She  looked  for  a  moment  wistfully  into  his  face.  Ah, 
if  he  could  help  her,  if  he  could  drive  this  haunting  mem- 
ory from  her,  if  ever  it  could  be  that  she  might  tell  him  of 
this  her  trouble  and  ask  him.  to  save  her  from  Hugh  Ferne- 
ly!  But  that  was  impossible.  Almost  as  though  in  answer 
to  her  thought,  Gaspar  Laurence  began  to  tell  them  of  an 
incident  that  had  impressed  him.  A  gentleman,  a  friend 
of  his,  after  making  unheard-of  sacrifices  to  marry  a  lady 
who  was  both  beautiful  and  accomplished,  left  her  sudden- 
ly, and  never  saw  her  again,  the  reason  being  that  he  dis- 
covered that  she  had  deceived  him  by  telling  him  a  willful 
lie  before  her  marriage.  Gaspar  seemed  to  think  she  had 
been  hardly  used.  Lord  Airlie  and  Lionel  differed  from 
him. 

"  I  am  quite  sure,"  said  Lord  Airlie,  '*  that  1  could  par- 
don anything  sooner  than  a  lie;  all  that  is  mean,  despica- 
ble, and  revolting  to  me  is  expressed  in  the  one  word  *  liar.' 
Sudden  anger,  passion,  hot  revenge — anything  is  more 
easily  forgiven.  When  once  I  discover  that  a  man  or  wom- 
an has  told  me  a  lie,  I  never  care  to  see  their  face  again. " 

*'  1  agree  with  you,"  said  Lionel;  "  perhaps  I  even  go 
further.  I  would  never  pardon  an  air  of  deceit;  those  I 
love  must  be  straightforward,  honest,  and  sincere  always." 

"  Such  a  weight  of  truth  might  sink  the  boat,"  said 
Beatrice,  carelessly;  but  Lord  Airlie's  words  had  gone 
straight  to  her  heart.  If  he  only  knew.  But  he  never 
would.  And  again  she  wished  that  in  reply  to  her  father's 
question  she  had  answered  truthfully. 

The  time  came  when  Lillian  remembered  Mr.  Dacre's 
words,  and  knew  they  had  not  been  spoken  in  vain. 


DORA    THORNE.  167 

Beatrice  had  taken  off  her  glove,  and  drew  her  hand 
through  the  cool,  deep  water;  thinking  intently  of  the 
story  she  had  just  heard — of  Undine  and  the  water-sprites 
— she  leaned  over  the  boat's  side  and  gazed  into  the  depths. 
The  blue  sky  and  white  fleecy  clouds,  the  tall  green  trees 
and  broad  leaves,  were  all  reflected  there.  There  was  a 
strange,  weird  fascination  in  the  placid  water — what  went 
on  in  the  depths  beneath?  what  lay  beneath  the  ripples? 
Suddenly  she  drew  back  with  a  startled  cry — a  cry  that 
rang  out  in  the  clear  summer  air,  and  haunted  Lord  Airlie 
while  he  lived.  He  looked  at  her;  her  face  had  grown 
white,  even  to  the  very  lips,  and  a  nameless,  awful  dread 
lay  in  her  dark  eyes. 

"  What  is  it?"  he  asked,  breathlessly.  She  recovered 
herself  with  a  violent  effort,  and  tried  to  smile. 

"  How  foolish  I  am!"  she  said;  "and  what  is  worse, 
you  will  all  laugh  at  me.  It  was  sheer  fancy  and  nonsense, 
I  know;  but  1  declare  that  looking  down  into  the  water,  I 
saw  my  own  face  there  with  such  a  wicked,  mocking  smile 
that  it  frightened  me. " 

"  It  was  the  simple  reflection,"  said  Lionel  Dacre.  '*  I 
can  see  mine.  Look  again,  Miss  Earle." 

"  No,"  she  replied,  with  a  shudder;  "  it  is  only  non- 
sense, I  know,  but  it  startled  me.  The  face  seemed  to  rise 
from  the  depths  and  smile — oh,  oh,  such  a  smile!  When 
Bhall  I  forget  it?" 

"  It  was  only  the  rippling  of  the  water  which  distorted 
the  reflection,  said  Lord  Airlie. 

Beatrice  made  no  reply,  but  drew  her  lace  shawl  around 
her  as  though  she  were  cold. 

"I  do  not  like  the  water,"  she  said  presently;  "  it 
always  frightens  me.  Let  us  land.  Mr.  Laurence,  please. 
I  will  never  go  on  the  lake  again." 

Gaspar  laughed,  and  Mr.  Dacre  declared  Beatrice  had 
had  too  strong  a  dose  of  Undine  and  the  water-spirits. 
Lord  Airlie  felt  her  hand  tremble  as  he  helped  hor  to  leave 
the  boat.  He  tried  to  make  her  forget  the  incident  by 
talking  of  the  ball  and  the  pleasure  it  would  bring.  She 
talked  gayly,  but  every  now  and  then  he  saw  that  she  shud- 
i  as  though  icily  cold. 

When  they  were  fiUi-ring  the  honse  she  turned  round, 
and,  in  her  rh:inuin£,  imperious  way,  said: 

"  N  .ust  tuJl  papa  about  my  fright.    I  should 


168  DORA    THOKNE. 

not  like  him  to  think  that  an  Earle  could  be  either  fanci« 
ful  or  a  coward.     1  am  brave  enough  on  land." 

The  heat  had  tried  both  girls,  and  Lady  Helena  said 
they  must  rest  before  dinner.  She  made  Beatrice  lie  down 
upon  the  cosy  little  couch  in  her  dressing-room.  She 
watched  the  dark  eyes  close,  and  thought  how  beautiful 
the  young  face  looked  in  repose. 

But  the  girl's  sleep  was  troubled.  Lady  Earle,  bending 
over  her,  heard  her  sigh  deeply  and  murmur  something 
about  the  "  deep  water."  She  awoke,  crying  out  that  she 
saw  her  own  face,  and  Lady  Earle  saw  great  drops  of  per- 
spiration standing  in  beads  upon  her  brow. 

**  What  have  you  been  dreaming  of,  child?"  she  asked. 
**  Youug  girls  like  you  ought  to  sleep  like  flowers." 

"  Flowers  never  quite  close  their  eyes,"  said  Beatrice, 
with  a  smile.  "  I  shut  mine,  but  my  brain  is  active,  it 
seems,  even  in  sleep.  I  was  dreaming  of  the  lake,  Lady 
Helena.  Dreams  are  very  wonderful;  do  they  ever  come 
true?" 

"  I  knew  one  that  did,"  replied  Lady  Earle.  "  When 
1  was  young,  I  had  a  friend  whom  I  loved  very  dearly  — 
Laura  Reardon.  A  gentleman,  a  Captain  Lemuel,  paid 
great  attention  to  her.  She  loved  him — my  poor  Laura  — 
as  I  hope  few  people  love.  For  many  months  he  did  every- 
thing but  make  an  offer — saw  her  every  day,  sent  her 
flowers,  books,  and  music,  won  ,her  heart  by  a  thousand 
sweet  words  and  gentle  deeds.  She  believed  he  was  in  earn- 
est, anrt  never  suspected  him  of  being  a  male  flirt.  He  left 
London  suddenly,  saying  good-bye  to  her  in  the  ordinary 
way,  and  speaking  of  his  return  in  a  few  weeks. 

"  She  came  to  me  one  morning  and  told  me  a  strange 
dream.  She  dreamed  she  was  dead,  and  lay  buried  in  the 
center  aisle  of  an  old  country  church.  At  the  same  time, 
and  in  the  usual  vague  manner  of  dreams,  she  was  con- 
scious of  an  unusual  stir.  She  heard  carriages  drive  up  to 
the  church  door;  she  heard  the  rustling  of  dresses,  the 
sound  of  footsteps  above  her  head,  the  confused  murmur 
of  a  crowd  of  people;  then  she  became  aware  that  a  mar- 
riage was  going  on.  She  heard  the  minister  ask: 

k '  George  Victor  Lemuel,  will  you  have  this  woman  for 
your  lawful  wedded  wife?' 

'  The  voice  she  knew  and  loved  best  in  the  world  re- 
plied: 


DORA    THORNE.  169 

•••I  will.' 

"  '  Alice  Ferrars,  will  you  take  this  man  for  your  lawful 
wedded  husband?' 

"  '  1  will,'  replied  the  clear,  low  voice. 

'*  She  heard  the  service  finished,  the  wedding-bells  peal, 
the  carriages  drive  away.  I  laughed  at  her,  Beatrice;  but 
the  strange  thing  is,  Captain  George  Lemuel  was  married 
on  the  very  day  Laura  dreamed  the  dream.  He  married  a 
young  lady,  Alice  Ferrars,  and  Laura  had  never  heard  of 
the  name  before  she  dreamed  it.  The  marriage  took  place 
in  an  old  country  church.  That  dream  came  true,  Bea- 
trice; I  never  heard  of  another  dream  like  it " 

"  Did  your  friend  die?"  she  asked. 

"  No,"  replied  Lady  Helena;  '*  she  did  not  die,  but  her 
life  was  spoiled  by  her  unhappy  love." 

*'  I  should  have  died  had  it  been  my  disappointment," 
said  Beatrice;  "  the  loss  of  what  one  loves  must  be  more 
bitter  than  death. " 


Far  and  near  nothing  was  spoken  of  bat  the  ball  at 
Earlescourt  Anything  so  brilliant  or  on  so  grand  a  scale 
had  not  been  given  in  the  county  for  many  years. 

Lord  Earle  felt  proud  of  the  arrangements  as  he  looked 
through  the  ball-room  and  saw  the  gorgeous  array  of 
flowers,  tier  upon  tier  of  magnificent  bloom,  a  sight  well 
worth  coming  many  miles  to  see.  Here  and  there  a  mar- 
ble statue  stood  amid  the  flowers.  Little  fountains  of 
«cented  water  rippled  musically.  He  stopped  for  a  few 
moments  looking  at  the  blossoms  and  thinking  of  his  beau- 
tiful child. 

"  How  she  loves  everything  bright  and  gay!"  he  said  to 
himself.  '*  She  will  be  queen  of  the  ball  to-night" 

As  Lord  Earle  stood  alone  in  his  library  that  evening, 
R-here  he  had  been  resting,  stealing  a  quiet  half  hour,  thi-i v 
came  a  gentle  knock  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said,  and  there  stood  before  him  some- 
thing that  he  thought  must  be  a  vision. 

1  irandmamma  sent  me,"  said  Beatrice,  blushing,  **  to 
see  if  I  should  do.  You  are  to  notice  my  diamonds,  pajui, 
and  tell  me  if  you  approve  of  the  setting." 

he  looked  at  the  radiant  figure  a  sense  of  wonder 
stole  over  him.     Could  this  magnificent  beauty  really  be 


170  DORA    THOBNB. 

Dora's  daughter — Dora  who  had  stained  her  pretty  hand 
with  strawberry- juice  so  many  years  ago? 

He  knew  nothing  of  the  details  of  the  dress,  he  saw  only 
the  beautiful  face  and  glorious  eyes,  the  crowns  of  waving 
hair,  the  white,  stately  neck  and  exquisite  arms.  Before 
him  was  a  gleam  of  pale  pink  satin,  shrouded  with  lace  so 
fine  and  delicate  that  it  looked  like  a  fairy  web;  and  the 
Earle  diamonds  were  not  brighter  than  the  dark  eyes. 
They  became  the  wearer  well.  They  would  have  eclipsed 
a  fair,  faded  beauty;  they  added  radiance  to  Beatrice's. 

"  Where  is  Lillian?"  he  asked;  and  she  knew  from  the 
tone  of  his  voice  how  proud  and  satisfied  he  was. 

"  I  am  here,  papa/'  said  a  gentle  voice.  "  I  wanted, 
you  to  see  Beatrice  first" 

Lord  Earle  hardly  knew  which  to  admire  the  more.  Lil- 
lian looked  so  fair  and  graceful;  the  pure,  spiritual  face 
and  tender  eyes  had  new  beauty;  the  slender,  girlish  figure 
contrasted  well  with  the  stately  dignity  of  Beatrice. 

"  1  hope  it  will  be  a  happy  evening  for  you  both,"  he 
said. 

"  1  feel  sure  it  will  for  me,"  said  Beatrice,  with  a  smile. 
"  I  am  thoroughly  happy,  and  am  looking  forward  to  the 
ball  with  delight." 

Lord  Earle  smiled  half  sadly  as  he  gazed  at  her  bright 
face,  wondering  whether,  in  years  to  come,  it  would  be 
clouded  or  shadowed. 

**  Will  you  dance,  papa?"  asked  Beatrice,  with  a  gleam 
of  mischief  in  her  dark  eyes. 

"  I  think  not,"  be  replied;  and  Ronald  Earle's  thoughts 
went  back  to  the  last  time  he  had  ever  danced — with  Val- 
entine Charteris.  He  remembered  it  well.  Ah,  no!  all 
those  pleasant,  happy  days  were  over  for  him. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE  dinner-party  was  over,  and  carriage  after  carriage 
tolled  up  to  the  Hall;  the  rooms  began  to  fill;  there  was  a 
faint  sound  of  music,  a  murmur  of  conversation  and 
laughter. 

"  You  have  not  forgotten  your  promise  to  me,  Miss 
Earle?"  said  Lord  Airlie.  "  I  am  to  have  the  first  dance 
and  the  last,  certainly,  and  as  many  more  as  you  oan« 


DORA    THORtfE.  171 

**  I  have  not  forgotten,"  replied  Beatrice.  She  was 
never  quite  at  her  ease  with  him,  although  she  loved  him 
better  than  any  one  else  on  earth.  There  was  ever  pres- 
ent with  her  the  consciousness  that  she  did  so  love  him,  and 
the  wonder  whether  he  cared  for  her. 

They  opened  the  ball,  and  many  significant  comments 
were  made  upon  the  fact.  Gaspar  Laurence  was  present. 
He  was  deeply  engaged  for  more  than  two  hours  in  making 
up  his  mind  whether  he  should  ask  Beatrice  to  dance  with 
him  or  not — she  looked  so  beautiful,  so  far  above  him. 
Gaspar  could  not  help  loving  her — that  was  impossible;  the 
first  moment  he  saw  her  -he  was  entranced.  But  his  was  a 
humble,  hopeless  kind  of  adoration.  He  would  sooner 
have  dreamed  of  wooing  and  winning  a  royal  princess  than 
of  ever  asking  Beatrice  to  be  his  wife. 

At  length  he  summoned  up  courage,  and  was  rewarded 
by  a  bright  smile  and  kind  words.  Poor  Gaspar!  When 
the  beautiful  face  was  near  him,  and  her  hand  rested  on 
his  shoulder,  he  thought  he  must  be  dreaming. 

"  There/'  he  said,  when  the  dance  was  over;  "  I  shall 
not  dance  again.  I  should  not  like  to  lose  the  memory  of 
rhat  waltz." 

"  Why  not?"  she  asked,  wonderingly. 

"  1  must  be  candid  with  you,"  said  Gaspar,  sadly. 
"  Perhaps  my  confession  is  a  vain  one;  but  1  love  you, 
Miss  Earle — so  dearly  that  the  ground  on  which  you  stand 
is  sacred  to  me." 

"  That  is  not  a  very  timid  declaration"  said  Beatrice, 
with  a  smile.  *'  You  are  courageous,  Mr.  Laurence.  1 
have  only  seen  you  three  times. " 

"  It  would  make  no  difference,"  said  Gaspar,  "  whether 
I  had  seen  you  only  once,  or  whether  1  met  you  every  day. 
I  am  not  going  to  pain  you,  Miss  Earle.  Think  kindly  of 
me — 1  do  not  ask  more;  only  remember  that  living  in  this 
world  there  is  one  who  would  stand  between  you  and  all 
peril — who  would  sacrifice  his  life  for  you.  You  will  not 
forget?" 

"  I  will  not,"  said  Beatrice,  firmly.  "  Never  could  I 
forget  such  words.  I  am  willing  to  be  your  friend — I 
know  how  to  value  you." 

"  1  shall  be  happier  with  your  friendship  than  with  the 
love  of  any  other  woman,"  said  Guspar,  gratefully. 

Just  then  Lord  Earle  came  and  took  Mr.  Laurence  away. 


172  DORA    THOEKE. 

Beatrice  stood  where  he  had  left  her,  half  screened  from 
sight  by  the  luxuriant  foliage  and  magnificent  flowers  of  a 
rare  American  plant.  There  was  a  thoughtful,  tender,  ex- 

Eressiou  on  her  face  that  softened  it  into  wondrous  beauty, 
he  liked  Gaspar,  and  was  both  pleased  and  sorry  that  he 
loved  her.  Very  pleasant  was  this  delicious  homage  of 
love — pleasant  was  it  to  know  that  strong,  brave,  gifted 
men  laid  all  tbey  had  in  the  world  at  her  feet — to  know 
ihat  her  looks,  smiles,  and  words  moved  them  as  nothing 
else  could. 

Yet  she  was  sorry  for  Gaspar.  It  must  be  sad  to  give  all 
one's  love  and  expect  no  return.  She  would  be  his  friend, 
but  she  oould  never  be  anything  more.  She  could  give 
him  her  sincere  admiration  and  esteem,  but  not  her  love. 

The  proud,  beautiful  lips  quivered,  and  the  bright  eyes 
grew  dim  with  tears.  No,  not  her  love — that  was  given, 
and  could  never  be  recalled;  in  all  the  wide  world,  from 
among  all  men's,  Lord  Airlie's  face  stood  out  clear  and 
distinct.  Living  or  dying,  Lord  Earle's  daughter  knew 
she  could  care  for  no  other  man. 

She  had  taken  in  her  hand  one  of  the  crimson  flowers  of 
the  plant  above  her,  and  seemed  lost  in  contemplating  it. 
She  saw  neither  the  blossom  nor  the  leaves.  She  was 
thinking  of  Lord  Airlie's  face,  and  the  last  words  he  had 
said  to  her,  when  suddenly  a  shadow  fell  before  her,  and, 
looking  up  hastily,  she  saw  him  by  her  side.  He  appeared 
unlike  himself,  pale  and  anxious. 

"Beatrice,"  said  he,  "I  must  speak  with  you.  Pray 
come  with  me,  away  from  all  these  people.  1  can  beat 
this  suspense  no  longer/' 

She  looked  at  him,  and  would  have  refused;  but  she  saw 
in  his  face  that  which  compelled  obedience.  .  For  Lord 
Airlie  had  watched  Gaspar  Laurence — he  had  watched  the 
dance  and  the  interview  that  followed  it.  He  saw  the  soft- 
ened look  on  her  face,  and  it  half  maddened  him.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  Lord  Airlie  was  fiercely  jealous.  He 
detested  this  fair-haired  Gaspar,  with  his  fund  of  German 
romance  and  poetry. 

Could  it  be  that  he  would  win  the  prize  he  himself  would 
have  died  to  secure?  What  was  he  saying  to  her  that  soft- 
ened the  expression  on  her  face?  "What  had  he  said  that 
left  her  standing  there  with  a  tender  light  in  her  dark  eyea 
which  he  had  never  seen  before?  He  could  not  bear  tha. 


DORA    THORNE.  173 

suspense;  perhaps  a  ball-room  might  not  be  the  most  ap- 

Eropriate  place  for  an  offer  of  marriage,  but  he  must  know 
is  fate,  let  it  be  what  it  might  He  went  up  to  her  and 
made  his  request. 

"  \Vhere  are  you  going?"  asked  Beatrice,  suddenly,  for 
Lord  Airlie  had  walked  rapidly  through  the  suite  of  rooms, 
crowded  with  people,  and  "through  the  long  conservatory. 

"We  are  not  alone,"  he  replied.  "See,  Lady  Lau- 
rence and  Mr.  Gresham  prefer  the  rose-garden  here  to 
those  warm  rooms.  I  must  speak  with  you,  Miss  Earle. 
Let  me  speak  now." 

They  stood  in  the  pretty  garden,  where  roses  of  varied 
hues  hung  in  rich  profusion;  the  air  was  heavy  with  per- 
fume. The  moon  shone  brightly  iu  the  evening  sky;  its 
beams  fell  upon  the  flowers,  bathing  them  iu  floods  of  sil- 
ver light. 

A  little  rustic  garden-seat  stood  among  the  sleeping  roses; 
and  there  Beatrice  sat,  wondering  at  the  strong  emotion 
she  read  in  her  lover's  face. 

"  Beatrice,"  he  said,  "  I  can  bear  it  no  longer.  Why 
did  Gaspar  Laurence  bend  over  you?  What  was  he  say- 
ing:* My  darling,  do  you  not  know  how  I  love  you — so 
dearly  and  so  deeply  that  1  could  not  live  without  you?  Do 
you  not  know  that  I  have  loved  you  from  the  first  moment 
I  ever  beheld  you?  Beatrice,  my  words  are  weak.  Look 
at  me — read  the  love  iu  my  face  that  my  lips  know  not  how 
to  utter." 

But  she  never  raised  her  eyes  to  his;  the  glorious 
golden  light  of  love  that  had  fallen  upon  her  dazzled  her. 

"  You  must  not  send  me  from  you,  Beatrice,"  he  said, 
clasping  her  hands  in  his.  "  I  am  a  strong  man,  not  given 
to  weakness;  but,  believe  me,  if  you  send  me  from  you,  it 
will  kill  me.  Every  hope  of  my  life  is  centered  in  you. 
Beatrice,  will  you  try  to  care  for  me?" 

She  turned  her  face  to  his— the  moonlight  showed  clear* 
ly  the  bright  tears  in  her  dark  eyes.  For  answer  she  said, 
simply: 

"Do  not  leave  me — I  care  for  you  now;  my  love — my 
love — did  you  not  know  it?" 

The  sweet  face  and  quivering  lips  were  so  near  him  (hat 
Lord  Airlie  kissed  the  tears  away;  he  also  kissed  the  white 
hands  that  clasped  his  own. 


174  DORA    THOBNE. 

"  You  are  mine — my  own,"  he  whispered,  "  until  death; 
say  so,  Beatrice. " 

"  1  am  yours,"  she  said,  "  even  in  death/' 

It  was  a  stolen  half  hour,  but  so  full  of  happiness  that 
it  could  never  fade  from  memory. 

"  I  must  go,"  said  Beatrice,  at  length  unclasping  the 
firm  hand  that  held  her  own.  "  Oh,  Lord  Airlie,  how  am 
I  to  meet  all  my  friends?  Why  did  you  not  wait  until  to- 
morrow?" 

"  I  could  not,"  he  said;  "  and  you  perhaps  would  not 
then  have  been  so  kind." 

He  loved  her  all  the  more  for  her  simplicity.  As  they 
left  the  garden,  Lord  Airlie  gathered  a  white  rose  and  gave 
it  to  Beatrice.  Long  afterward,  when  the  leaves  had  be- 
come yellow  and  dry,  the  rose  was  found. 

They  remained  in  the  conservatory  a  few  minutes,  and 
then  went  back  to  the  ball-room. 

"  Every  waltz  must  be  mine  now,"  said  Lord  Airlie. 
"  And,  Beatrice,  1  shall  speak  to  Lord  Earle  to-night. 
Are  you  willing?" 

Yes,  she  was  willing.  It  was  very  pleasant  to  be  taken 
possession  of  so  completely.  It  was  pleasant  to  find  a  will 
stronger  than  her  own.  She  did  not  care  how  soon  all  the 
world  knew  that  she  loved  him.  The  only  thing  she  won- 
dered at  was  why  he  should  be  so  unspeakably  happy. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

BEATRICE  never  recollected  how  the  ball  ended;  to  her 
it  was  one  long  trance  of  happiness.  She  heard  the  music, 
the  murmur  of  voices,  as  though  in  a  dream.  There  Wc.\. 
times  when  everything  seemed  brighter  than  usual — that 
was  when  Lord  Airlie  stood  by  her  side.  Her  heart  was 
filled  with  unutterable  joy. 

It  was  strange,  but  in  that  hour  of  happiness  she  never 
even  thought  of  Hugh  Fernley;  the  remembrance  of  him 
never  once  crossed  her  mind.  Nothing  marred  the  fullness 
of  her  content. 

She  stood  by  Lord  Earle 's  side  as  guest  after  guest  came 
up  to  say  adieu.  She  saw  Lord  Airlie  waiting  for  her  fa- 
ther. 

**  Lord  Earle  will  be  engaged  for  some  time,  I  fear,"  he 


DORA    THORNE.  175 

Mid;  **  1  must  see  him  to-night.  Beatrice,  promise  me  yoa 
will  not  go  to  rest  until  your  father  has  given  us  his  con- 
sent." 

She  could  not  oppose  him.  When  girls  like  Beatrice 
Earle  once  learn  to  love,  there  is  something  remarkable  in 
the  complete  abandonment  of  their  will.  She  would  fain 
have  told  him,  with  gay,  teasing  words,  that  he  had  won 
concession  enough  for  one  night;  as  it  was,  she  simply 
promised  to  dp  as  he  wished. 

Lord  Earle  received  the  parting  compliments  of  his 
guests,  wondering  at  the  same  time  why  Lord  Airlie  kept 
near  him  and  seemed  unwilling  to  lose  sight  of  him.  The 
happy  moment  arrived  when  the  last  carriage  rolled  away, 
and  the  family  at  Earlescourt  were  left  alone.  Lady  .Earle 
asked  the  two  young  girls  to  go  into  her  room  for  half  an 
hour  to  "  talk  over  the  ball."  Lionel,  sorry  the  evening 
was  over,  retired  to  his  room;  then  Hubert  Airlie  went  to 
Lord  Earle  and  asked  if  he  might  speak  with  him  for  ten 
minutes. 

'*  Will  it  not  do  to-morrow?'*  inquired  Ronald,  smiling, 
as  he  held  up  his  watch.  "  See,  it  is  past  three  o'clock." 

"  No,"  replied  Lord  Airlie;  "  I  could  not  pass*  another 
night  in  suspense." 

"  Come  with  me,  then,"  said  the  master  of  Earlescourt, 
as  he  led  the  way  to  the  library,  where  the  lamps  were 
still  alight 

"  Now,  what  is  it?"  he  asked,  good-humoredly,  turning 
to  the  excited,  anxious  lover. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  study  my  words,"  said  Lord  Airlie; 
'*  but  I  can  not  Lord  Earle,  I  love  your  daughter  Bea- 
trice. Will  you  give  her  to  me  to  be  my  wife?'* 

"Sooner  than  to  anyone  else  in  the  world,"  replied 
Ronald.  "  Is  she  willing?" 

"  1  think  so,"  was  the  answer,  Lord  Airlie's  heart  thrill- 
ing with  happiness  as  he  remembered  her  words. 

Let  us  see,"  said  Lord  Earle.     He  rang  the  bell,  and 
sent  for  his  daughter. 

Lord  Airlie  never  forgot  the  beautiful,  blushing  face  half 
turned  from  him  as  Beatrice  entered  the  room. 

11  Iteatrice,"  said  her  father,  clasping  her  in  his  arms, 
'*  is  this  true?  Am  I  to  give  you  to  Lord  Airlie?" 

14  If  you  please,  papa,"  she  whispered. 

*'  T  do  please,"  he  cried.    *'  Hibert,  I  e^re  you  a  treas- 


176  DORA    THOENE. 

ure  beyono.  all  price.  You  may  judge  of  my  daughter's 
love  from  her  own  word.  1  know  it  has  never  been  given 
to  auy  one  but  you.  You  are  my  daughter's  first  lover, 
and  her  first  love.  You  may  take  bar  to  your  heart,  well 
satisfied  that  she  has  never  cared  for  any  one  else.  It  is 
true,  Beatrice,  is  it  not?" 

"  Yes/'  she  said,  faltering  for  a  moment,  as,  for  the 
first  time,  she  remembered  Hugh. 

"  To-morrow,"  continued  Lord  Earle,  "  we  will  talk  ojf 
the  future;  we  are  all  tried  to-night.  You  will  sleep  in 
peace,  Airlie,  1  suppose?" 

"  If  I  sleep  at  all,"  he  replied. 

"  Well,  you  understand  clearly  that,  had  the  choice 
rested  with  me  I  should  have  selected  you  from  all  others 
to  take  charge  of  my  Beatrice/*  said  Lord  Earle.  "Do 
not  wait  to  thank  me.  I  have  a  faint  idea  of  how  much  a 
grateful  lover  has  to  say.  Good-night." 

******* 

*'  What  is  it,  Beatrice?"  asked  Lillian,  as  the  two  sis- 
ters stood  alone  in  the  bright  little  dressing-room. 

"  I  can  hardly  tell  you  in  sober  words/'  she  replied. 
*'  Lord  Airlie  has  asked  me  to  be  his  wife — his  wife;  and 
oh,  Lily,  I  love  him  so  dearly!'' 

Pride  and  dignity  all  broke  down;  the  beautiful  face  was 
laid  upon  Lillian's  shoulder,  and  Beatrice  wept  happy 
tears. 

"  I  love  him  so,  Lily,"  she  went  on;  "  but  I  never 
thought  he  cared  for  me.  What  have  I  ever  dope  that  I 
should  be  so  happy?" 

The  moonbeams  never  fell  upon  a  sweeter  picture  than 
these  fair  young  sisters;  Lillian's  pure,  spirituelle  face 
bent  over  Beatrice. 

"  1  love  him,  Lily,"  she  continued,  "  for  himself.  He 
is  a  king  among  men.  Who  is  so  brave,  so  generous,  so 
noble?  If  he  were  a  beggar,  I  should  care  just  as  much 
for  him." 

Lillian  listened  and  sympathized  until  the  bright,  dnrk 
eyes  seemed  to  grow  weary;  then  she  bade  her  sister  good- 
night, and  went  to  her  own  room. 

Beatrice  Earle  was  alone  at  last — alone  with  her  happi- 
ness and  love.  It  seemed  impossible  that  her  heart  and 
brain  could  ever  grow  calm  or  quite  again.  It  was  all  in 


DORA    THORNE.  17? 

vain  sue  tried  to  sleep.  Lord  Airlie's  face,  his  voice,  his 
words  haunted  her. 

She  rose,  and  put  on  a  pretty  pink  dressing-gown.  The 
fresh  air,  she  thought,  would  make  her  sleep,  so  she  opened 
the  long  window  gently,  and  looked  out. 

The  night  was  still  and  clear;  the  moon  hung  over  the 
dark  trees;  Hoods  of  silvery  light  bathed  the  far-off  lake, 
the  sleeping  flowers,  and  the  green  grass.  There  was  a 
gentle  stir  amid  the  branches;  the  leaves  rustled  in  the 
wind ;  the  blue,  silent  heavens  shone  bright  and  calm.  The 
solemn  beauty  of  the  starlit  sky  and  the  hushed  murmur 
appealed  to  her.  Into  the  proud,  passionate  heart  there 
came  some  better,  nobler  thoughts.  Ah,  in  the  future  that 
lay  so  brilliant  and  beautiful  before  her  she  would  strive  to 
be  good,  she  would  be  true  and  steadfast,  she  would  think 
more  of  what  Lily  loved  and  spoke  about  at  times.  Then 
her  thoughts  went  back  to  her  lover,  and  that  happy  hall 
hour  in  the  rose-garden.  From  her  window  she  could  see 
it — the  moon  shone  full  upon  it.  The  moonlight  was  a 
fair  type  of  her  life  that  was  to  be,  bright,  clear,  unshad- 
owed. Even  as  the  thought  shaped  itself  in  her  mind,  a 
shadow  fell  among  the  roses.  She  looked,  and  saw  the  fig- 
ure of  a  tall  man  walking  down  the  path  that  divided  the 
little  garden  from  the  shrubbery.  He  stood  still  there, 
gazing  long  and  earnestly  at  the  windows  of  the  house,  and 
then  went  out  into  the  park,  and  disappeared. 

She  was  not  startled.  A  passing  wonder  as  to  who  it 
might  be  struck  her.  Perhaps  it  was  one  of  the  game- 
keepers or  gardeners,  but  she  did  not  think  much  about  it. 
A  shadow  in  the  moonlight  did  not  frighten  her. 

Soon  the  cool,  fresh  air,  did  its  work;  the  bright,  dark 
eyes  grew  tired  in  real  earnest,  and  at  length  Beatrice  re- 
tired to  rest. 

The  sun  was  shining  brightly  when  she  awoke.  By  her 
Bide  lav  a  fragrant  bouquet  of  flowers,  the  dew-drops  still 
glistening  upon  them,  and  in  their  midst  a  little  note  which 
said: 

44  Beatrice,  will  you  come  into  the  garden  for  a  few  min- 
before  breakfast,  just  to  tell  me  all  that  happened  last 
night  was  not  a  dream?" 

She  rose  quickly.  Over  her  pretty  morning-dress  she 
threw  a  light  shawl,  and  went  down  to  meet  Lord  Airlie. 


178  DORA    THOENB. 

"  It  was  no  dream, "  she  said,  simply,  holding  out  her 
hand  in  greeting  to  him. 

*'  Dear  Beatrice,  how  very  good  of  you!"  replied  Lord 
Airlie;  add  ing  presently:  "  We  have  twenty  minutes  befoVe 
the  breakfast-bell  will  ring;  let  us  make  the  best  of  them." 

The  morning  was  fresh,  fair,  and  calm,  a  soft  haze  hang- 
ing round  the  trees. 

"  Beatrice,"  said  Lord  Airlie,  "  you  see  the  sun  shining 
there  iu  the  high  heavens.  Three  weeks  ago  I  should  hare 
thought  it  easier  for  that  same  sun  to  fall  than  for  me  to 
win  you.  1  can  scarcely  believe  that  my  highest  ideal  oi 
woman  is  realized.  It  was  always  my  ambition  to  marry 
some  young  girl  who  had  never  loved  any  one  before  ma 
You  never  have.  No  man  ever  held  your  hand  as  1  hold 
it  now,  no  man  ever  kissed  your  face  as  1  kissed  it  lasfc 
night." 

As  he  spoke  a  bi  ring  flush  covered  her  face.  She  re- 
membered Hugh  Fernely.  He  loved  her  better  for  th« 
blush,  thinking  how  pure  and  guileless  she  was. 

"I  fear  I  shall  be  a  very  jealous  lover,*'  he  continued 
"  I  shall  envy  everything  those  beautiful  eyes  rest  upon. 
Will  you  ride  with  me  this  morning?  I  want  to  talk  tc 
you  about  Lynnton — my  home,  you  know.  You  will  be 
Lady  Airlie  of  Lynntou,  and  no  king  will  be  so  proud  as  I 
shall." 

The  breakfast-bell  rang  at  last.  When  Beatrice  entered 
the  room  Lady  Earle  went  up  to  her. 

"  Your  papa  has  told  me  the  news,"  she  said.  "  Heaven 
bless  you,  and  make  you  happy,  dear  child!" 

Lionel  Dacre  guessod  the  state  of  affairs,  and  said  but 
little.  The  chief  topic  of  conversation  was  the  ball,  inter- 
spersed by  many  conjectures  on  the  part  of  Lord  Earle  as 
to  why  the  post-bag  was  so  late. 

It  did  not  arrive  until  breakfast  was  ended.  Lord  Earle 
distributed  the  letters;  there  were  three  for  Lord  Airlie, 
one  to  Lady  Earle  from  Dora,  two  for  Lionel,  none  for 
Lillian.  Lord  Earle  held  in  his  hand  a  large  common  blue 
envelope. 

"  Miss  Beatrice  Earle,"  he  said;  "  from  Brookfield. 
What  large  writing!  The  name  was  evidently  intended  to 
be  seen." 

Beatrice  took  the  letter  carelessly  from  him;  the  hand- 
writing was  quite  unknown  to  her;  she  knew  no  one  in 


DORA    THORNE.  179 

Brookfield,  which  was  the  nearest  post-town — it  was  proba- 
bly some  circular,  some  petition  for  charity,  she  thought. 
Lord  Airlie  crossed  the  room  to  speak  to  her,  and  she 
placed  the  letter  carelessly  in  the  pocket  of  her  dress,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  forgot  all  about  it. 

Lord  Airlie  was  waiting;  the  horses  had  been  ordered  for 
an  early  hour.  Beatrice  ran  upstairs  to  put  on  her  riding- 
habit,  and  never  gave  a  thought  to  the  letter. 

It  was  a  pleasant  ride;  in  the  after-days  she  looked  back 
upon  it  as  one  of  the  brightest  hours  she  had  ever  known. 
Lord  Airlie  told  her  all  about  Lynuton,  his  beautiful  home 
— a  grand  old  castle,  where  every  room  had  a  legend,  every 
tree  almost  a  tradition. 

For  he  intended  to  work  wonders;  a  new  and  magnificent 
wing  should  be  built,  and  on  one  room  therein  art,  skill, 
and  money  should  be  lavished  without  stint. 

*'  Her  boudoir,"  he  said,  "  should  be  fit  for  a  queen  and 
for  a  fairy." 

So  they  rode  through  the  pleasant,  sunlit  air.  A  sudden 
thought  struck  Beatrice. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said,  "  what  mamma  will  think?  You 
must  go  to  see  her,  Hubert.  She  dreaded  love  and  mar- 
riage so  much.  Poor  mamma!" 

She  asked  herself,  with  wondering  love,  what  could  have 
happened  that  her  mother  should  dread  what  she  found  so 
pleasant?  Lord  Airlie  entered  warmly  into  all  her  plans 
and  wishes.  Near  the  grand  suite  of  rooms  that  were  to 
be  prepared  for  his  beautiful  young  wife,  Lord  Airlie  spoke 
of  rooms  for  Dora,  if  she  would  consent  to  live  with  them. 

"  1  must  write  and  tell  mamma  to-day,"  said  Beatrice. 
*'  I  should  not  like  her  to  hear  it  from  any  one  but  my- 
self." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  allow  me  to  inclose  a  note,"  suggest- 
ed L^rd  Airlie,  "  asking  her  to  tolerate  ma" 

"  I  do  net  think  that  will  be  renr  difficult,"  laughingly 
replied  his  companion. 

Their  ride  was  a  long  one.  On  their  reuirr  Beatrice 
was  slightly  tired,  and  went  straight  to  her  owu  itxxr 
She  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Dora,  who  must  have  smiled  a* 
her  description  of  Lord  Airlie.  He  was  everything  that 
was  true,  noble,  chivalrous,  and  grand.  The  world  did  not 
hold  such  another.  When  the  letter  was  finished  it  was 
*vne  to  dress  for  dinner 


180  DORA    THOENE. 

"  Which  dress  will  you  wear,  miss?"  asked  the  attentive 
maid. 

"  The  prettiest  1  have,"  said  the  young  girl,  her  bright 
face  glowing  with  the  words  she  had  just  written. 

What  dress  could  be  pretty  enough  for  him?  One  was 
found  at  last  that  pleased  her — a  rich,  white  cre'pe.  But 
she  would  wear  no  jewels— nothing  but  crimson  roses. 
One  lay  in  the  thick  coils  of  her  dark  hair,  another  nestled 
against  her  white  neck,  others  looped  up  the  flowing  skirt. 

Beatrice's  toilet  satisfied  her — this,  too,  with  her  lover's 
fastidious  taste  to  please.  She  stood  before  the  large  mir- 
ror, and  a  pleased  smile  overspread  her  face  as  she  saw 
herself  reflected  therein. 

Suddenly  she  remembered  the  letter.  The  morning-dress 
still  hung  upon  a  chair.  She  took  the  envelope  from  the 
pocket. 

**  Shall  you  want  me  again,  Miss  Earle?"  asked  her 
maid. 

"  No,"  replied  Beatrice,  breaking  the  seal;  "  1  ain 
ready  now." 

The  girl  quitted  the  room,  and  Beatrice,  standing  before 
the  mirror,  drew  out  a  long,  closely  written  letter,  turning 
presently,  in  amazement,  to  the  signature,  wondering  who 
could  be  the  writer. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THE  sun  shone  brightly  upon  the  roses  that  gleamed  in 
her  hair  and  nestled  against  the  white  neck.  Could  it  be 
lingering  in  cruel  mockery  upon  the  pale  face  and  the  dark 
eyes  so  full  of  wild  horror?  As  Beatrice  Earle  read  that 
letter,  the  color  left  even  her  lips,  her  heart  seemed  to 
stand  still,  a  vague,  nameless  dread  took  hold  of  her,  the 
paper  fell  from  her  hands,  and  with  a  long,  low  cry  she 
fell  upon  her  knees,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands. 

It  had  fallen  at  last — the  cruel  blow  that  even  in  her 
dreams  and  thoughts  she  had  considered  impossible.  Hugh 
Fernely  had  found  her  out,  and  claimed  her  as  his  own! 

This  letter,  which  had  stricken  joy  and  beauty  from  the 
proud  face  and  left  it  white  and  cold  almost  as  the  face  of 
the  dead,  was  from  him;  and  the  words  it  contained  were 
full  of  such  passionate  Iw.  f^at  they  terrified  her.  The 
letter  ran  as  follows: 


DORA    THORNE.  181 

"  MY  OWN  BEATRICE, — From  peril  by  «ea  and  land  I 
have  returned  to  claim  you.  Since  we  parted  I  have  stood 
face  to  face  with  death  in  its  most  terrible  form.  Each 
time  I  conquered,  because  I  felt  I  must  see  you  again.  It 
is  a  trite  saying  that  death  is  immortal.  l)eath  itself  would 
not  part  me  from  you — nay,  if  I  were  buried,  and  you  came 
to  my  grave  ami  whispered  my  name,  it  seems  to  me  I 
must  hear  you. 

"  Beatrice,  you  promised  to  be  my  wife — you  will  not 
fail  me?  Ah,  no,  it  can  not  be  that  the  biue  heavens 
above  will  look  on  quietly  and  witness  my  death-blow! 
You  will  come  to  me,  aud  give  me  a  word,  a  smile  to  show 
how  true  you  have  been. 

44  Last  evening  I  wandered  round  the  grounds,  wonder- 
ing which  were  the  windows  of  my  love's  chamber,  and 
asking  myself  whether  she  was  dreaming  of  me.  Life  hus 
changed  for  you  since  we  sat  upon  the  cliffs  at  Knutsford 
and  you  promised  to  be  my  wife.  I  heard  at  the  farm  all 
about  the  great  change,  and  how  the  young  girl  who  wan- 
dered with  me  through  the  bonny  green  woods  is  the  daugh- 
ter of  Lord  Earle.  Your  home,  doubtless,  is  a  stately  one. 
Kank  and  position  like  yours  might  frighten  some  lovers — 
they  do  not  daunt  me.  You  will  not  let  them  stand  be- 
tween UP.  You  can  not,  after  the  promises  you  uttered. 

"  Beatrice,  my  voyage  has  been  a  successful  one;  I  am 

not  a  rich  man,  but  1  have  enough  to  gratify  every  wish  of 

your  heart.     I  will  take  you  away  to  suuny  lands  over  the 

eea,  where  life  shall  be  so  full  of  happiness  that  you  will 

to  end. 

"  I  wait  your  commands.  Rumor  tells  me  Lord  Earle 
is  a  strange,  disappointed  man.  I  will  not  yet  call  upon 
you  at  your  own  home;  I  shall  await  your  reply  at  Brook- 
field.  Write  at  once,  Beatrice,  and  tell  me  how  and  when 
1  may  meet  you.  I  will  go  anywhere,  at  any  time.  Do 
not  delay — my  heart  hungers  and  thirsts  for  one  glance  of 
your  peerless  face.  Appoint  an  hour  soon.  How  shall  I 
live  until  it  comes?  Until  then  think  of  me  as 
44  Your  devoted  lover, 

44  HUGH  FERNELY. 

44  Address  Post-office,  Brookfield." 

Sin-  mid  every  word  carefully,  and  then  slowly  turned 
the  letter  over  and  read  it  again.  Her  white  lips  quivered 


1§2  DORA    THORNE. 

with  indignant  passion.  How  dared  he  presume  so  far? 
His  love!  Ah,  if  Hubert  Airlie  could  have  read  those 
words!  Fernely's  love!  She  loathed  him;  she  hated,  with 
fierce,  hot  hatred,  the  very  sound  of  his  name.  Why  must 
this  most  wretched  folly  of  her  youth  rise  up  against  her 
now?  What  must  she  do?  Where  could  she  turn  for  help 
snd  counsel? 

Could  it  be  possible  that  this  man  she  hated  so  fiercely 
had  touched  her  face  and  covered  her  hands  with  kisses 
and  tears?  She  struck  the  little  white  hands  which  held 
the  letter  against  the  marble  stand,  and  where  Hugh 
Fernely's  tea  s  had  fallen  a  dark  bruise  purpled  the  fair 
skin;  while  hard,  fierce  words  came  from  the  beautiful 
lips. 

"Was  1  blind,1  foolish,  mad?"  she  cried.  "Dear 
Heaven,  save  me  from  the  fruits  of  my  own  folly  I" 

Then  hot  auger  yielded  to  despair.  What  should  she 
do?  Look  which  way  she  might,  there  was  no  hope.  If 
Lord  Earle  once  discovered  that  she  had  dealt  falsely  with 
him,  she  would  be  driven  from  the  home  she  had  learned 
to  love.  He  would  never  pardon  such  concealment,  deceit, 
and  folly  as  hers.  She  knew  that.  If  Lord  Airlie  ever 
discovered  that  any  other  man  had  called  her  his  love,  had 
kissed  her  face,  and  claimed  her  as  his  own,  she  would  lose 
his  affection.  Of  that  she  was  also  quite  sure. 

If  she  would  remain  at  Earlescourt,  if  she  would  retain 
her  father's  affection  and  Lord  Airlie's  love,  they  must 
never  hear  of  Hugh  Fernely.  There  could  be  no  doubt  on 
that  head. 

What  should  she  do  with  him?  Could  she  buy  him  off? 
Would  money  purchase  her  freedom?  Kemembering  hia 
pride  and  his  love,  she  thought  not.  Should  she  appeal  to 
his  pity — tell  him  all  her  heart  and  life  were  centered  in 
Lord  Airlie?  Should  she  appeal  to  his  love  for  pity's 
sake? 

Remembering  his  passionate  words,  she  knew  it  would 
be  useless.  Had  she  but  been  married  before  he  returned 
— were  she  but  Lady  Airlie  of  Lyunton — he  could  not  have 
harmed  her.  Was  the  man  mad  to  think  he  could  win  her 
— she  who  had  had  some  of  the  most  noble-born  men  in 
England  at  her  feet?  Did  he  think  she  would  exchange 
bor  grand  old  name  for  his  obscure  one — her  magnificence 
for  his 


DORA    THORXE.  183 

Tiiew  was  no  more  time  for  thought;  the  dinner-bell 
had  sounded  for  the  last  time,  and  she  must  descend.  She 
thrust  the  letter  hastily  into  a  drawer,  and  locked  it,  and 
then  turned  to  her  mirror.  She  was  startled  a!;  the  change. 
Surely  that  pale  face,  with  its  quivering  lips  and  shadowed 
syes  could  not  be  hers.  What  should  she  do  to  drive  away 
the  startled  fear,  the  vague  dread,  the  deadly  pallor?  The 
roses  she  wore  were  but  a  ghastly  contrast. 

**  I  must  bear  it  better/'  she  said  to  herself.  **  Such  a 
face  as  this  will  betray  my  secret  Let  me  feel  that  I  do 
not  care — that  it  will  all  come  right  in  the  end." 

She  said  the  words  aloud,  but  the  voice  was  changed  and 
hoarse. 

"  Women  have  faced  more  deadly  peril  than  this,"  she 
continued,  "  and  have  won.  Is  there  any  peril  1  would 
not  brave  for  Hubert  Airlie's  sake?'* 

Beatrice  Earle  left  the  room.  She  swept,  with  her  beau- 
tiful head  erect  through  the  wide  corridors  and  down  the 
broad  staircase.  She  took  her  seat  at  the  sumptuous  table, 
whereon  gold  and  silver  shone,  whereon  everything  rechercht 
p.n-1  magnificent  was  displayed.  But  she  had  with  her  a 
companion  she  was  never  again  to  lose,  a  haunting  fear,  a 
skeleton  that  was  never  more  to  quit  her  side,  a  miserable 
consciousness  of  folly  that  was  bringing  sore  wretchedness 
ppon  her.  Never  again  was  she  to  feel  free  from  fear  and 
care. 

"  Beatrice,"  said  Lady  Earle,  when  dinner  was  over, 
"you  will  never  learn  prudence." 

She  started,  and  the  beautiful  bloom  just  begining  to  re- 
turn, vanished  again. 

"  Do  not  look  alarmed,  my  dear,"  continued  Lady  Hel- 
ena; *4 1  am  not  angry.  1  fear  you  were  out  too  long  to- 
day. Lord  Airlie  must  take  more  care  of  you;  the  sun 
was  very  hot,  and  you  look  quite  ill.  1  never  saw  you 
Jook  as  you  do  to-night." 

"  We  had  very  little  sun,"  replied  Beatrice,  with  a  laugh 
as  she  tried  to  nmke  a  gay  one;  "  we  rode  under  the  shade 
m  the  park.  I  am  tired,  but  not  with  my  ride." 

It    was  a  pleasant    evening,  and  when  the  gentlemen 

j ••iii'.'d   the  ladies  in  the  drawing-room  the  sunbeams  still 

lingered  on  flower  and  tree.'    The  long  windows  were  all 

,  and  the  soft  summer  wind  that  came  in  was  laden 

with  the  sweet  breath  of  the  flowers. 


184  DORA    THOKNE. 

Lord  Alrlie  asked  Beatrice  to  sing.  It  was  a  relief  to  her; 
she  could  not  have  talked;  all  the  love  and  sorrow,  all  the 
fear  and  despair  that  tortured  her,  could  find  vent  in 
music.  So  she  sat  in  the  evening  gloaming,  and  Lord  Air- 
lie,  listening  to  the  superb  voice,  wondered  at  the  pathos 
and  sadness  that  seemed  to  ring  in  every  note. 

"  What  weird  music,  Beatrice!"  he  said,  at  length. 
**  You  are  singing  of  love,  but  the  love  is  all  sorrow. 
Your  songs  are  generally  so  bright  and  happy.  What  has 
come  over  you?" 

*'  Nothing,"  was  the  reply,  but  he,  bending  over  her, 
saw  the  dark  eyes  were  dim  with  tears. 

"  There,"  cried  Lord  Airlie,  "  you  see  1  am  right.  You 
have  positively  sung  yourself  to  tears. " 

He  drew  her  from  the  piano,  and  led  her  to  the  large  bay 
window  where  the  roses  peeped  in.  He  held  her  face  np 
to  the  mellow  evening  light,  and  looked  gravely  into  her 
beautiful  eyes. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  simply,  "  what  has  saddened  you, 
Beatrice — you  have  no  secrets  from  me.  What  were  you 
thinking  of  just  now  when  you  sung  that  dreamy  '  Lebe- 
wohl '?  Every  note  was  like  a  long  sigh." 

*'  Shall  you  laugh  if  1  tell  you?"  she  asked. 

*'  No,"  he  replied;  "  I  can  not  promise  to  sigh,  but  1 
will  not  smile." 

"  I  was  thinking  what  I  should  do  if — if  anything  hap- 
pened to  part  us." 

"  But  nothing  ever  will  happen,"  he  sai  ; ;  "  nothing  can 
part  us  but  death.  1  know  what  would  h-ippen  to  me  if  I 
lost  you,  Beatrice." 

"  What?"  she  asked,  looking  up  int.-  the  handsome,, 
kindly  face. 

"  I  should  not  kill  myself,"  he  said,  '•  for  I  hold  life  to 
fce  a  sacred  gift;  but  I  should  go  vvhere^ the  face  of  no  other 
tfoman  would  smile  upon  me.  Why  do  you  talk  so  dole- 
fully, Beatricpe?  Let  us  change  the  subject.  Tell  me 
where  you  would  like  to  go  when  we  are  married — shall  it 
be  France,  Italy,  or  Spain?" 

"  WouM  nothing  ever  make  you  love  me  less,  Hubert?" 
she  asked.  "  Neither  poverty  nor  sickness?" 

"  No,"  he  replied;  "nothing  you  can  think  of  or  ia« 
Vent." 


DORA    THORPE.  185 

'*  Nor  disgrace?"  she  continued;  but  he  interrupted  her 
half  angrily. 

"  Hush!"  he  said,  "  I  do  not  like  such  a  word  upon  your 
lips;  never  say  it  again.  What  disgrace  can  touch  you? 
You  are  too  pure,  too  good." 

She  turned  from  him,  and  he  fancied  a  low  moan  came 
from  her  trembling  lips. 

*'  You  are  tired,  and — pray  forgive  me,  Beatrice — nerv- 
ous too,"  said  Lord  Airlie;  "  I  will  be  your  doctor.  You 
shall  lie  down  here  upon  this  couch.  1  will  place  it  where 
you  can  see  the  sun  set  in  the  west,  and  I  will  read  to  yon 
something  that  will  drive  all  fear  away.  1  thought  during 
dinner  that  you  looked  ill  and  worn." 

Gently  enough  he  drew  the  couch  to  the  window,  Lady 
Earle  watching  him  the  while  with  smiling  face.  He  in- 
duced Beatrice  to  lie  down,  and  then  turned  her  face  to  the 
garden,  where  the  setting  sun  was  pleasantly  gilding  the 
flowers. 

4 '  Now,  you  have  something  pleasant  to  look  at,"  said 
Lord  Airlie,  "  and  you  shall  have  something  pleasant  to 
listen  to.  I  am  going  to  read  some  of  Schiller's  '  Marie 
Stuart.'  " 

He  sat  at  her  feet,  and  hold  her  white  hands  in  his.  He 
read  the  grand,  stirring  words  that  at  times  seemed  like  the 
ring  of  martial  music,  and  again  like  the  dirge  of  a  soul  in 
despair. 

His  clear,  rich  voice  sounded  pleasantly  in  the  evening 
calm.  Beatrice's  eyes  lingered  on  the  western  sky  a8 
aflame,  but  her  thoughts  were  with  Hugh  Fernely. 

What  could  she  do?  If  she  could  but  temporize  with  him, 
if  she  could  but  pacify  him,  for  a  time,  until  she  was  mar- 
ried, all  would  be  safe,  lie  would  not  dare  to  talk  of 
claiming  Lady  Airlie — it  would  be  vain  if  he  did.  Be 
she  would  persuade  Lord  Airlie  to  go  abroad;  and,  seeing 
all  pursuit  useless,  Hugh  would  surely  give  her  up.  ! 
at  the  very  worst,  if  Hubert  and  she  were  once  married, 
she  would  not  fear;  if  she  confessed  all  to  him  he  woulii 
forgive  her.  He  might  be  very  angry,  but  he  would  pardon 
his  wife.  If  he  knew  all  about  it  before  marriage  there 
was  no  hope  for  her. 

She  must  temporize  with  Fernely — write  in  a  style  that 
would  convey  nothing,  and  tell  him  that  he  must  wait.  H« 


186  DORA    THORNS. 

could  not  refuse.  She  would  write  that  evening  a  letter 
that  should  give  him  no  hope,  nor  yet  drive  him  to  despair. 

"  That  is  a  grand  scene,  is  it  not?"  said  Lord  Airlie  sud- 
denly; then  he  saw  by  Beatrice's  startled  look  that  she  had 
not  listened. 

"  I  plead  guilty  at  once,"  she  replied.  "  I  was  thinking 
— do  not  be  angry — I  was  thinking  of  something  that  re- 
lates to  yourself.  I  heard  nothing  of  what  you  read,  Hu- 
bert. Will  you  read  it  again?" 

"  Certainly  not,'*  he  said,  with  a  laugh  of  quiet  amuse- 
ment, "  Reading  does  not-answer;  we  will  try  conversa- 
tion. Let  us  resume  the  subject  you  ran  away  from  before 
— where  shall  we  go  for  our  wedding-trip?" 

Only  three  days  since  she  would  have  suggested  twenty 
different  places;  she  would  have  smiled  and  blushed,  her 
dark  eyes  growing  brighter  at  every  word.  Now  she  list- 
ened to  her  lover's  plans  as  if  a  ghostly  hand  had  clutched 
her  heart  and  benumbed  her  with  fear. 


That  evening  it  seemed  to  Beatrice  Earle  as  though  she 
would  never  be  left  alone.  In  the  drawing-room  stood  a 
dainty  little  escritoire  used  by  the  ladies  of  Earlescourt. 
Here  she  dared  not  write  lest  Lord  Airlie  should,  as  he  often 
did,  linger  by  her,  pretending  to  assist  her.  If  she  went 
into  the  library  Lord  Earle  would  be  sure  to  ask  to  whom 
Bhe  was  writing.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to 
wait  until  she  retired  to  her  own  room. 

First  came  Lady  Earle,  solicitous  about  her  health,  re- 
commending a  long  rest  and  a  quiet  sleep;  then  Lillian,  full 
of  anxiety,  half  longing  to  ask  Beatrice  if  she  thought 
Lionel  Dacre  handsomer  and  kinder  than  any  one  else;  then 
the  maid  Suzette,  who  seemed  to  linger  as  though  she 
would  never  go. 

At  length  she  was  alone,  the  door  locked  upon  the  outer 
world.  She  was  soon  seated  at  her  little  desk,  where  she 
speedily  wrote  the  following  cold  letter,  that  almost  drove 
Hugh  Fernely  mad: 

"MY  DEAR  HUGH, — Have  you  really  returned?  I 
thought  you  were  lost  in  the  Chinese  Seas,  or  had  forgotten 
the  little  episode  at  Knutsford.  I  can  not  see  you  just  yet. 
As  you  have  heard,  Lord  Earle  has  peculiar  notions — I 


DORA    THORNE.^  187 

must  humor  them.     1  will  write  again  soon,  and  say  when 
and  where  I  can  see  you. 

"  Yours  sincerely, 

"  BEATRICE  EARLE." 

She  folded  the  letter  and  addressed  it  as  he  wished ;  then 
she  left  her  room  and  went  down  into  the  hall,  whore  the 
post-bag  lay  open  upon  the  table.  She  placed  the  missive 
Inside,  knowing  that  no  one  would  take  the  trouble  to  look 
at  the  letters;  tluin  she  returned,  as  she  had  come,  silently. 

The  letter  reached  BrookQeld  at  noon  the  following  day. 
\\\MI  Hugh  Fernely  opened  it  he  bit  his  lips  with  rage. 
Cold,  heartless  lines!  Not  one  word  was  there  of  welcome. 
Not  one  of  sorrow  for  his  supposed  death;  no  mention  of 
love,  truth,  or  fidelity;  no  promise  that  she  would  be  his. 
What  could  such  a  letter  mean? 

He  almost  hated  the  girl  whom  he  had  loved  so  well.  Yet 
he  couhl  not,  would  not,  believe  anything  except  that  per- 
haps during  his  long  absence  she  had  grown  to  think  less 
kindly  of  him.  She  had  promised  to  be  his  wife,  and  let 
come  what  might,  he  would  make  her  keep  her  word. 

So  he  said,  and  Hugh  Fernely  meant  it.  His  whole 
life  was  centered  in  her  and  he  would  not  tamely  give  her 
up. 

The  letter  dispatched,  Beatrice  awaited  the  reply  with  a 
suspense  no  words  can  describe.  A  dull  wonder  came  over 
her  at  times  why  she  must  suffer  so  keenly.  Other  girls 
had  done  what  she  had  done — nay,  fifty  times  worse — and 
no  Nemesis  haunted  them.  Why  was  this  specter  of  fear 
and  shame  to  stand  by  her  side  every  moment  and  distress 
her? 

It  was  true  it  had  been  very  wrong  of  her  to  meet  this 
tiresome  Hugh  Fernely  in  the  pleasant  woods  and  on  the 
sea-shore;  but  it  had  broken  the  monotony  that  had 
seemed  to  be  killing  her.  His  passionate  love  had  been 
delicious  flattery;  still  she  had  not  intended  anything  seri- 
ous. It  had  only  been  a  novelty  and  an  amusement  to  her, 
although  to  him  perhaps  it  had  been  a  matter  of  life  or 
death.  But  she  had  deceived  Lord  Earle.  If,  when  he  had 
questioned  her,  and  sought  with  such  tender  wisdom  to  win 
her  confidence,  if  she  had  told  him  her  story  then,  he  woultf 
saved  her  from  further  persecution  and  from  the 
of  her  own  folly;  if  she  had  told  him  then,  it  would 


188  DORA    THOBNB. 

not  have  mattered — there  would  have  been  no  obstacle  to 
her  love  for  Lord  Airlie. 

It  was  different  now.  If  she  were  to  tell  Lord  Earle, 
after  his  deliberate  and  emphatic  words,  she  could  expect 
no  mercy;  yet,  she  said  to  herself,  other  girls  have  done 
even  worse,  and  punishment  had  not  overtaken  them  so 
swiftly. 

At  last  she  slept,  distressed  and  worn  out  with  thought. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

FOR  the  first  time  in  her  life,  when  the  bright  sun  shone 
into  her  room,  Beatrice  turned  her  face  to  the  wall  and 
dreaded  the  sight  of  day.  The  post-bag  would  leave  the 
hall  at  nine  in  the  morning — Hugh  would  have  the  letter 
at  noon.  Until  then  she  was  safe. 

Noon  came  and  went,  but  the  length  of  the  summer's 
day  brought  nothing  save  fresh  misery.  At  every  unusual 
stir,  every  loud  peal  of  the  bell,  every  quick  footstep,  she 
turned  pale,  and -her  heart  seemed  to  die  within  her. 

-Lady  Earle  watched  her  with  anxious  eyes.  She  could 
not  understand  the  change  that  had  come  over  the  brilliant 
young  girl  who  had  used  to  be  the  life  of  the  house.  Every 
now  and  then  she  broke  out  into  wild  feverish  gayety. 
Lillian  saw  that  something  ailed  her  sister — she  could  not  tell 
what. 

For  the  fiftieth  time  that  day,  when  the  hall-door  bell 
sounded,  Beatrice  looked  up  with  trembling  lips  she  vainly 
tried  to  still.  At  last  Lady  Earle  took  the  burning  hands 
in  her  own. 

•  "  My  dear  child,"  she  said,  "  you  will  have  a  nervous 
fever  if  you  go  on  iu  this  way.  What  makes  you  start  at 
every  noise?  You  look  as  though  you  were  waiting  for 
something  dreadful  to  happen. " 

"  No  one  ever  called  me  nervous/'  replied  Beatrice,  with 
a  smile,  controlling  herself  with  an  effort;  "  mamma's  chief 
complaint  against  me  was  that  I  had  no  nerves;"  adding 
presently  to  herself:  '*  This  can  not  last.  I  would  rather 
die  at  once  than  live  in  this  agony. " 

The  weary  day  came  to  a  close,  however;  and  it  was  well 
for  Beatrice  that  Lord  Airlie  had  not  spent  it  with  her. 
The  gentlemen  at  Earlescourt  had  all  gone  to  a  bachelor's 


DORA    THORITE.  189 

dinner,  given  by  old  Squire  Newton  of  the  Grange.  It 
was  late  when  they  returned,  and  Lord  Airlie  did  not  notice 
anything  unusual  in  Beatrice. 

"  I  call  this  a  day  wasted,"  he  said,  as  he  bade  her  good- 
night; "for  it  has  been  a  day  spent  away  from  you.  I 
thought  it  would  never  come  to  an  end." 

She  sighed,  remembering  what  a  dreary  day  it  had  been 
to  her.  Could  she  live  through  such  another?  Half  the 
night  she  lay  awake,  wondering  if  Hugh's  answer  to  her 
letter  would  come  by  the  first  post,  and  whether  Lord 
Earle  would  say  anything  if  he  noticed  another  letter  from 
Brookfield.  -  Fortune  favored  her.  In  the  morning  Lord 
Earle  was  deeply  engrossed  by  a  story  Lionel  was  telling, 
and  asked  Beatrice  to  open  the  bag  for  him.  She  again 
saw  a  hated  blue  envelope  bearing  her  own  name.  ^  lit  u 
all  the  other  letters  were  distributed,  she  slipped  hers  into 
the  pocket  of  her  dress,  without  auy  one  perceiving  the 
action. 

Breakfast  was  over  at  last;  and  leaving  Lord  Airlie  talk* 
ing  to  Lillian,  Beatrice  hastened  to  read  the  letter.  None 
of  Hugh's  anger  was  there  set  down;  but  if  she  had  cared 
for  him  her  heart  must  have  ached  at  the  pathos  of  his 
simple  words.  He  had  received  her  note,  he  said — the  note 
so  unworthy  of  her — and  hastened  to  tell  her  that  he  was 
obliged  to  go  to  London  on  some  important  business  con- 
nected with  his  ship,  and  that  he  should  be  absent  throe 
weeks.  He  would  write  to  her  at  once  on  his  return,  and 
he  should  insist  upon  seeing  her  then,  as  well  as  exact 
the  fulfillment  of  her  promise. 

It  was  a  respite;  much  might  happen  in  three  weeks. 
She  tore  the  letter  into  shreds,  and  felt  as  though  relieved 
of  a  deadly  weight.  If  time  could  but  be  gained,  she  thought 
— if  something  could  happen  to  urge  on  her  marrige  with 
Hubert  Airlie  before  Hugh  returned!  At  auy  rate,  for  the 
moment  she  was  free. 

She  looked  like  herself  again  when  Lord  Airlie  came  to 
a-ik  her  if  she  would  ride  or  walk.  The  beautiful  bloom 
liiid  returned  to  her  face  and  the  tight  to  her  eyes.  All  day 
she  was  in  brilliant  spirits.  There  was  no  need  now  to 
tromble  at  a  loud  ring  or  a  rapid  step.  Three  weeks  was 
a  I'M,'  time — much  might  happen.  '*  Oh,  if  Lord  Airlie 
would  but  force  me  to  marry  him  soon!" 

very  evening  Lord  Airlie  asked  her  if  she  would  go 


190  DORA    THOKNE. 

out  with  him.  He  wanted  to  talk  to  her  alone,  for  he  was 
going  away  on  the  moryow,  and  had  much  to  say  to  her. 

"  "Where  are  you  going?"  she  asked  with  sad,  wondering 
eyes,  her  chance  of  escaping  seeming  rapidly  to  diminish. 

"  I  am  going  to  Lynnton,"  he  replied,  "  to  see  about 
plans  for  the  new  buildings.  They  should  be  begun  at 
once.  For  even  if  we  remain  abroad  a  whole  year  they 
will  then  be  hardly  finished.  1  shall  be  away  ten  days  or 
a  fortnight.  When  1  return,  Beatrice,  I  shall  ask  you  a 
question.  Can  you  guess  what  it  will  be?" 

There  was  no  answering  smile  on  her  face.  Perhaps  he 
would  be  absent  three  "reeks.  What  chance  of  escape  had 
she  now? 

"I  shall  ask  you  when  you  will  fulfill  your  promise,"  he 
continued — "  when  you  will  let  me  make  you  in  deed  and 
in  word  my  wife.  You  must  not  be  cruel  to  me,  Beatrice. 
I  have  waited  long  enough.  Y^i:  T"'  think  about  it  while 
I  am  gone,  will  you  not?" 

Lord  Earle  smiled  as  he  noted  his  daughter's  face. 
Airlie  was  going  away,  and  therefore  she  was  dull — that 
was  just  as  it  should  be.  She  was  delighted  that  she  cared 
so  much  for  him.  He  told  Lady  Helena  that  he  had  not 
thought  Beatrice  capable  of  such  deep  affection.  Lady 
Helena  told  him  she  had  never  known  any  one  who  could 
love  so  well  or  hate  so  thoroughly  as  Beatrice. 

The  morning  came,  and  Lord  Airlie  lingered  so  long  over 
his  farewell  that  Lady  Helena  began  to  think  he  would  alter 
his  mind  and  remain  where  he  was.  He  started  at  last, 
however,  promising  to  write  every  day  to  Beatrice,  and 
followed  by  the  good  wishes  of  the  whole  household. 

He  was  gone,  and  Hugh  was  gone;  for  three  weeks  she 
had  nothing  to  fear,  nothing  to  hope,  and  a  settled  inel« 
aneholy  calm  fell  upon  her.  Her  father  and  Lady  Helena 
thought  she  was  dull  because  her  lover  was  away;  the 
musical  laugh  that  used  to  gladden  Lord  Earle's  heart  waa 
hushed;  she  became  unusually  silent;  the  beautiful  face 
grew  pale  and  sad.  They  smiled  and  thought  it  natural. 
Lillian,  who  knew  every  expression  of  her  sister's  face, 
grew  anxious,  fearing  there  was  some  ailment  either  of 
body  or  mind  of  which  none  of  them  were  aware. 

They  believed  she  was  thinking  of  her  absent  lover  and 
feeling  dull  without  him.  In  reality  her  thoughts  were  cen- 
tered upon  one  ;  '"* — wh*fr  could  she  do  to  get  rid  of  Hugh 


DORA    TH03NE.  191 

Fernely?  Morning,  noon,  and  night  that  one  question 
was  always  before  her.  She  talked  when  others  aid,  she 
laughed  with  them;  but  if  there  came  an  interval  of  silence 
the  beautiful  face  assumed  a  far-off  dreamy  expression 
Lillian  had  never  seen  there  before.  Beatrice  was  gener- 
ally on  her  guard,  watchful  and  careful,  but  there  were 
time's  when  the  mask  she  wore  so  bravely  fell  off,  and 
Lillian,  looking  at  her  then,  knew  all  was  not  well  with 
her  sister. 

What  was  to  be  done  to  get  free  from  Hugh?  Every 
hour  in  the  day  fresh  plans  came  to  her — some  so  absurd 
as  to  provoke  feverish,  unnatural  laughter,  but  none  that 
were  feasible.  With  all  her  daring  wit,  her  quick  thought, 
her  vivid  fancy — with  all  her  resource  of  mind  and  intel- 
lect, she  could  do  nothing.  Day  and  night  the  one  Ques- 
tion was  still  there — what  could  she  do  to  get  free  from 
Hugh  Fernely? 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

A  WHOLE  week  passed,  and  the  "  something  "  Beatrice 
longed  for  had  not  happened.  Life  went  on  quietly  and 
smoothly.  Her  father  and  Lady  Earle  busied  themselves 
in  talking  of  preparations  for  the  marriage.  Lionel  Dacre 
and  Lillian  slowly  drifted  into  the  fairy-land  of  hope. 
Lord  Airlie  wrote  every  day.  No  one  dreamed  of  the  dark 
secret  that  hung  over  Earlescourt. 

Every  morning  Beatrice,  with  the  sanguine  hopefulness 
of  youth,  said  to  herself,  **  Something  will  happen  to-day;" 
every  night  she  thought,  "  Something  must  happen  to-mor- 
row;" but  days  and  nights  went  on  calmly,  unbroken  by 
any  event  or  incident  such  as  she  wished. 

The  time  of  reprieve  was  rapidly  passing.  What  should 
she  do  if,  at  the  end  of  three  weeks,  Lord  Airlie  returned 
and  Hugh  Fernely  came  back  to  Earlescourt?  Through 
the  long  sunny  hours  that  question  tortured  her — the  sus- 
pense made  her  sick  at  heart.  There  were  times  when  she 
thought  it  better  to  die  at  once  than  pass  through  this  lin- 
gering agony  of  fear. 

But  she  was  young,  and  youth  is  ever  sanguine;  she  was 
brave,  and  the  brave  rarely  despair.  She  did  not  realize 
the  d'tliculties  of  her  position,  and  she  did  not  think  it 


192  DOHA   THOKBTE. 

possible  that  anything  could  happen  to  take  her  from 
Hubert  Airlie. 

Only  one  person  noted  the  change  in  Beatrice,  and  that 
was  her  sister,  Lillian  Earle.  Lillian  missed  the  high 
spirits,  the  brilliant  repartee,  the  gay  words  that  had  made 
home  so  bright;  over  and  over  again  she  said  to  herself  all 
was  not  well  with  her  sister. 

Lillian  had  her  own  secret — one  she  had  as  yet  hardly 
whispered  to  herself.  From  her  earliest  childhood  she  had 
been  accustomed  to  give  way  to  Beatrice.  Not  that  there 
was  any  parti'ality  displayed,  but  the  willful  young  beauty 
generally  contrived  to  have  her  own  way.  By  her  engag- 
ing manners  and  high  spirits  she  secured  every  one's  atten- 
tion; and  thus  Lillian  was  in  part  overlooked. 

She  was  very  fair  and  gentle,  this  golden-haired  daughter 
of  Ronald  Earle.  Her  face  was  so  pure  and  spirituelle  that 
one  might  have  sketched  it  for  the  face  of  a  seraph;  the 
tender  violet  eyes  were  full  of  eloquence,  the  white  brow 
full  of  thought.  Her  beauty  never  dazzled,  never  took  any 
one  by  storm;  it  won  by  -slow  degrees  a  place  in  one's  heart. 

She  was  of  a  thoughtful,  unobtrusive  nature;  nothing 
could  have  made  her  worldly,  nothing  could  have  made  her 
proud. 

Sweet,  calm,  serene,  ignorant  alike  of  all  the  height  of 
happiness  and  the  depths  of  despair — gifted,  too,  with  a 
singularly  patient  disposition  and  amiable  temper,  no  one 
had  ever  seen  Lillian  Earle  angry  or  hasty;  her  very  pres- 
ence seemed  full  of  rest  and  peace. 

Nature  had  richly  endowed  her.  She  had  a  quick,  vivid 
fancy,  a  rare  and  graceful  imagination;  and  perhaps  her 
grandest  gift  was  a  strong  and  deep  love  for  things  not  of 
this  world.  Not  that  Lillian  was  given  to  "  preaching," 
or  being  disagreeably  "  goody,"  but  high  and  holy 
thoughts  came  naturally  to  her.  When  Lord  Earle  wanted 
amusement,  he  sent  for  Beatrice— no  one  could  while  away 
long  hours  as  she  could;  when  he  wanted  comfort,  advice, 
or  sympathy,  he  sought  Lillian.  Every  one  loved  her, 
much  as  one  loves  the  sunbeams  that  bring  bright  light 
and  warmth. 

Lionel  Dacre  loved  her  best  of  all.  His  only  wonder  was 
that  any  one  could  even  look  at  Beatrice  when  Lillian  was 
near.  He  wondered  sometimes  whether  she  had  not  been 
made  expressly  for  him — «he  was  so  strong  where  he 


DORA    THORNE. 

weak,  her  calm  serene  patience  controlled  his  impetuosity, 
her  gentle  thought!  ulness  balanced  his  recklessness,  hei 
sweet,  graceful  humility  corrected  his  pride. 

She  influenced  him  more  than  ho  knew — one  word  from 
her  did  wonders  with  him.  He  loved  her  for  her  fair  beau- 
ty, but  most  of  all  for  the  pure,  guileless  heart  that  knew 
no  shadow  of  evil — upon  which  the  world  had  never  even 
breathed. 

Lionel  Dacre  had  peculiar  ideas  about  women.  His 
mother,  who  had  been  a  belle  in  her  day,  was  essentially 
worldly.  The  only  lessons  she  had  ever  taught  him  were 
how  to  keep  up  appearances,  how  to  study  fashionable 
life  and  keep  pace  with  it 

She  had  been  a  lady  of  fashion,  struggling  always  with 
narrow  means;  and  there  were  times  when  her  son's  Heart 
grew  sick,  remembering  the  falseness,  the  meanness,  the 
petty  cunning  maneuvers  she  had  beeu  obliged  to  practice. 

As  he  grew  older  and  began  to  IOCK  around  the  world, 
he  was  not  favorably  impressed.  The  ladies  of  his  mother's 
rircle  were  all  striving  together  to  get  the  foremost  place. 
He  heard  of  envy,  jealousy,  scandal,  untruth,  until  he  won- 
dered if  all  women  were  alike. 

He  himself  was  of  a  singularly  truthful,  honorable  nature 
— all  deceit,  all  false  appearances  were  hateful  to  him.  He 
had  formed  to  himself  an  ideal  of  a  wife,  and  he  resolved  to 
live  and  die  unmarried  unless  he  could  find  some  one  tf 
realize  it. 

Lillian  Earle  did.  He  watched  her  keenly;  ehe  was 
truthful  and  open  as  the  day.  He  never  heard  a  false 
word  from  her — not  even  one  of  the  trifling  excuses  that 
pass  current  in  society  for  truth.  He  said  to  himself,  if 
any  one  was  all  but  perfect,  surely  she  waa  To  use  his 
own  expression,  he  let  his  heart's  desire  rest  in  her;  all  he 
had  ever  hoped  for  or  dreamed  of  was  centered  in  her.  Ifu 
>  work  deliberately  and  with  all  the  ardor  of  his  im- 
petuous nature  to  win  her  love. 

At  first  she  did  not  understand  him;  then  by  degrees  he 
Watched  the  pure  young  heart  awaken  to  consciousness.  It 
was  as  pretty  a  development  of  love  as  ever  was  witnessed. 
At  the  -sound  of  his  footsteps  or  his  voice  the  faint  color 
flushed  into  her  face,  light  came  into  her  eyes;  and  when 
he  stood  by  her  side,  bending  his  handsome  head  to  read 
her  secret,  she  would  speak  u  word  or  two,  and  then  hurry 


194  DORA    THORN*. 

away  from  him.  If  he  wished  to  join  her  in  her  walks  01 
rides,  she  begged  to  be  excused  with  trembling  lips  and 
drooping  eyes. 

She  hardly  knew  herself  what  had  come  to  her — why  the 
world  seemed  suddenly  to  have  grown  so  fair — what  made 
fresh  luster  in  the  sky  above.  A  vague,  delicious  happi- 
ness  stirred  in  the  gentle  heart.  She  longed  for,  yet  half 
dreaded,  Lionel's  presence.  When  he  was  near  her  the  littla 
hands  trembled  and  the  sweet  face  grew  warm  and  flushed. 
Yet  the  measure  of  -her  content  and  huppiness  seemed  full. 

Lionel  saw  it  all,  and  he  wondered  why  such  a  precious 
treasure  .as  the  love  of  this  pure,  innocent  girl  should  be 
his.  What  had  he  ever  done  to  deserve  it?  Through  her 
he  began  to  respect  all  other  women,  through  her  he  begun 
to  value  the  high  and  holy  teachings  he  had  hitherto  over- 
looked. She  was  his  ideal  realized.  If  ever  the  time  should 
come  for  him  to  be  disappointed  in  her,  then  he  would  be- 
lieve all  things  false — but  il;  never  could  be. 

How  should  he  tell  her  oi  his  love?  It  would  be  like  try- 
ing to  cage  a  startled,  timid  bird,  fie  stood  abashed  before 
her  sweet  innocence. 

But  the  time  came  when  u.3  resolved  to  woo  and  win  her 
— when  he  felt  that  his  life  would  be  unbearable  without 
her;  and  he  said  to  himself  thafc  sweet  Lillian  Earle  should 
be  his  wife,  or  he  would  nevei  'ook  upon  a  woman's  face 
again. 

Lionel  felt  some  slight  jealoisy  of  Beatrice;  he  paid 
dearly  enough  for  it  in  the  dark  after-days.  He  fancied 
that  she  eclipsed  Lillian.  He  thought  that  if  he  spoke  to 
Lord  Earle  of  his  love  he  would  insist  upon  both  marriages 
taking  place  on  one  day;  and  then  his  fair  gentle  love 
would,  as  usual,  be  second  to  her  brilliant  sister. 

"  That  shall  never  be/'  he  said  to  himself.  "  Lillian 
shall  have  a  wedding-day  of  her  own,  the  honors  unshared. 
She  shall  be  the  one  center  of  attraction. " 

He  d3termined  to  say  nothing  to  Lord  Earle  until  Bea- 
trice wus  married;  surely  her  wedding  must  take  place  soon 
— Lord  Airlie  seemed  unable  to  exist  out  of  her  presence. 
When  they  were  married  and  gone,  Lillian  should  have  her 
turn  of  admiration  and  love.  It  was  nothing  but  proud, 
jealous  care  for  her  that  made  him  delay. 

And  Lillian  discovered  her  own  secret  at  last.  She  knew 
she  loved  Lionel.  He  was  unlike  every  one  else.  Whfl 


DORA    TBOBNE.  1W 

so  handsome,  so  brave,  so  good?  She  liked  to  look 
shyly  <il  the  fmnk,  proud  face  and  the  careless  wave  of  hair 
thrown  back  from  his  brow;  his  voice  made  music  iu  her 
heart,  and  she  wondered  whether  he  really  cared  for  her. 

In  her  rare  sweet  humility  she  never  saw  how  far  she 
was  above  him;  she  never  dreamed  that  he  looked  up  to 
her  as  a  captain  to  his  queen.  He  was  always  by  her  side, 
he  paid  her  a  thousand  graceful  attentions,  he  sought  her 
advice  and  sympathy;  some  unspoken  words  seemed  ever 
on  his  lips.  Lillian  Earle  asked  herself  over  and  over  again 
whethei  he  loved  her. 

She  was  soon  to  know.  From  some  careless  words  of 
Lord  Earle's,  Lionel  gathered  that  Beatrice's  marriage 
would  take  place  in  November.  Then  he  decided,  if  he 
could  win  her  consent,  that  Lillian's  wedding  should  be 
when  the  spring  flowers  were  blooming. 

August,  with  its  sunny  days,  was  at  an  end.  Early  in 
September  Lillian  stood  alone  on  the  shore  of  the  deep, 
clear  lake.  Lionel  saw  her  there,  and  hastened  to  join  her, 
wondering  at  the  grave  expression  on  her  face. 

"  \Vhat  are  you  thinking  of,  Lillian?"  he  asked.  "  Yon 
look  sad  and  serious." 

"  1  was  thinking  of  Beatrice,"  she  replied.  "  She  seems 
BO  changed,  so  different.  I  can  not  understand  it" 

"  1  can,"  said  Lionel.  "  You  forget  that  she  will  soon 
leave  the  old  life  far  behind  her.  She  is  going  into  a  new 
world ;  a  change  so  great  may  well  make  one  thoughtful. " 

"She  loves  Lord  Airlie,  returned  Lillian— she  could 
hear  even  then  the  musical  voice  saying,  "  I  love  him  so 
dearly,  Lily  " — "  she  can  not  be  unhappy." 

"  I  do  not  mean  that,  "he  replied;  "  thought  and  silence 
are  not  always  caused  by  unhappiness.  Ah,  Lily,"  he 
cried,  '*  I  wonder  if  you  guess  ever  so  faintly  at  the  thoughts 
that  till  my  heart!  I  wonder  if  you  know  how  dearly' I 
love  you.  Nay,  do  not  turn  from  me,  do  not  look  fright- 
ened. To  me  you  are  the  truest,  noblest,  and  fairest  wom- 
an in  the  world.  I  love  you  so  dearly,  Lily,  that  I  have 
not  a  thought  or  wish  away  from  you,  1  am  not  worthy 
to  win  you,  I  know — you  are  as  far  above  me  as  the  sun 
shining  overhead — but,  if  you  would  try,  you  might  make 
in  what  you  would.  Could  you  like  me?" 

The  sweet  i'n -hod  face  was  raised  to  his;  he  read  the 
in  tho  clear  eyes.  Jiut  the  <->>uld  not 


196  0GRA    THORITE. 

speak  to  him;  words  seemed  to  die  upon  her  lips.  Lionel 
took  the  little  white  hands  and  clasped  them  in  his  own. 

"  I  knew  I  should  frighten  you,  Lily,"  he  said,  gently. 
*'  Forgive  me  if  I  have  ppoken  too  abruptly.  I  do  not  wish 
you  to  decide  at  once.  Take  me  on  trial — see  if  you  can 
learn  to  love  me  weeks,  months,  or  years  hence.  1  am 
willing  to  wait  a  whole  life-time  for  you,  my  darling,  and 
should  think  the  time  well  spent.  Will  it  be  possible  for 
you  ever  to  like  me?" 

"  I  like  you  now,"  she  said,  simply. 

"Then  promise  to  endeavor  to  love  me,"  he  persisted; 
*'  will  you,  Lily?  I  will  do  anything  you  wish  me;  I  will 
try  my  best  to  be  half  as  good  as  you  are.  Promise  me, 
darling — my  life  hangs  on  your  answer." 

"  I  promise,"  she  said;  and  he  knew  how  much  the  words 
meant. 

On  the  little  hand  that  rested  in  his  own  he  saw  a  pretty 
ring;  it  was  a  large  pearl  set  in  gold.  Lionel  drew  it  from 
her  finger. 

"  1  shall  take  this,  Lily,"  he  said;  "  and,  when  Beatrice 
is  married  and  gone,  I  shall  go  to  Lord  Earle  and  ask  him 
to  give  you  to  me.  I  will  not  go  now;  we  will  keep  our 
secret  for  a  short  time.  Two  love  affairs  at  once  would  be 
too  much.  You  will  learn  to  love  me,  and  when  the 
spring-time  comes,  perhaps  you  will  make  me  happy  as 
Beatrice  will  by  then  have  made  Lord  Airlie.  1  shall  keep 
the  ring.  Lillian,  you  are  my  pearl,  and  this  will  remind 
me  of  you.  Just  to  make  me  very  happy,  say  you  are 
pleased. " 

"  I  will  say  more  than  that,"  she  replied,  a  happy  smile 
rippling  over  her  face;  "  I  have  more  than  half  learned  my 
lesson." 

He  kissed  the  pretty  hand,  and  looked  at  the  fair,  flushed 
face  he  dared  not  touch  with  his  lips. 

"  1  can  not  thank  you,"  he  said,  his  voice  full  Of  emo- 
tion. *'  I  will  live  for  you,  Lily,  and  my  life  shall  prove 
my  gratitude.  I  begin  to  wish  the  spring  were  nearer.  I 
wonder  if  you  will  have  learned  your  lesson  then." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

LORD  AIRLIE'S  return  to  Earlesoourt  had  been  delayed. 
The  ohfiTigog  to  take  place  at  Lynnton  involved  more  than 


DORA    THORNE.  19? 

/ie  thought.  3t  was  quite  three  weeks  before  he  could  leave 
the  Hall  and  seek  again  the  presence  he  loved  best  on 
earth. 

Three  weeks,  yet  nothing  had  happened.  Beatrice  had 
watched  each  day  begin  and  end  until  her  heart  grew  faint 
with  fear;  she  was  as  far  as  ever  from  finding  herself  freed 
from  Hugh  Fernely. 

Lord  Airlie,  on  his  arrival,  was  startled  by  the  change  in 
iier  brilliant  face.  Yet  he  was  flattered  by  it.  He  thought 
how  intensely  she  must  love  him  if  his  absence  could  affect 
her  so  strongly.  He  kissed  her  pale  face  over  and  over 
again,  declaring  that  he  would  not  leave  her  any  more — 
uo  one  else  knew  how  to  take  care  of  her. 

They  were  all  pleased  to  welcome  him,  for  every  one 
liked  Lord  Airlie,  and  the  family  circle  did  not  seem  com- 
plete without  him.  That  very  night  he  had  an  interview 
with  Lord  Earle  and  besought  him  to  allow  the  marriage 
to  take  place  as  soon  as  possible.  He  had  been  miserable 
away  from  Beatrice,  ho  declared,  and  he  thought  she 
Jooked  pale  and  grave.  Would  Lord  Earle  be  willing  to 
say  November,  or  perhaps  the  latter  end  of  October? 

"My  daughter  must  arrange  the  time  herself,"  said 
Lord  Earle;  "  whatever  day  she  chooses  will  meet  with 
my  approval." 

Lord  Airlie  went  to  the  draw  ing- room,  where  he  had  left 
Ht'jiti-iru,  and  told  her  Lord  Earle's  answer;  she  smiled,  but 
he  saw  the  white  lips  quiver  as  she  did  so. 

Only  one  month  since  his  passionate,  loving  words 
would  have  made  the  sweetest  music  to  her;  she  listened 
and  tried  to  look  like  herself,  but  her  heart  was  cold  with 
vague,  unutterable  dread. 

"  The  fourteenth  of  October" — clever  Lord  Airlie,  by 
some  system  of  calculation  known  only  to  himself,  per- 
suaded Beatrice  that  that  was  the  *'  latter  end  of  the 
month." 

41  Not  another  word,"  he  said,  gayly.     '*  I  will  go  and 

tell  Lord  Earle.      Do  not  say  afterward  that  you  have 

i-li;uiged  your  mind,  as  many  ladies  do.     Beatrice,  say  to 

1  Filbert,  I  promise  to  marry  you  on  the  fourteenth 

-r.'  ' 
repented  the  words  after  him. 

"  It  will  I);-  :il most  winter,"  he  added;  "  the  flowers  will 


ZVb  DORA    THORNE. 

have  faded,  the  leaves  will  have  fallen  from  the  trees;  yet 
no  summer  day  will  ever  be  so  bright  to  mo  as  tha^." 

She  watched  him  quit  the  room,  and  a  long,  low  cry  came 
from  her  lips.  Would,  it  ever  be?  She  went  to  the  win- 
dow, and  looked  at  the  trees.  When  the  green  leaves  lay 
dead  she  would  be  Lord  Airlie's  wife,  or  would  the  dark 
cloud  of  shame  and  sorrow  have  fallen,  hiding  her  for- 
ever from  bis  sight? 

Ah,  if  she  had  been  more  prudent!  How  tame  and  fool- 
ish, how  distasteful  the  romance  she  had  once  thought  de- 
lightful 8t>2med  now!  If  ehe  had  but  told  all  to  Lord 
Earle! 

It  was  too  late  now!  Yet,  despite  the  deadlv  fear  that 
Jay  at  be"  heart,  Beatrice  still  felt  something  like  hope. 
Hope  's  the  last  thing  to  die  in  the  human  breast— it  was 
not  yet  dead  in  hers. 

At  least  for  that  one  evening — the  first  after  Lord  Air- 
lio's  return — she  would  be  happy.  Sbe  would  throw  the 
dark  sbadow  away  from  her,  forget  it,  and  enjoy  her 
cover's  society.  He  couid  see  smiles  on  her  face,  and  hear 
origbt  words  such  as  he  loved.  Let  the  morrow  bring 
w'uat  it  would,  she  would  be  happy  that  night.  And  she 
kept  her  word. 

Lord  Airlie  looked  back  afterward  on  that  evening  as  one 
of  the  pleasantest  of  his  life.  There  was  no  shadow  upon 
the  beautiful  face  he  loved  so  well.  Beatrice  was  all  life 
and  animation;  her  gay,  sweet  words  charmed  every  one 
who  heard  them.  Even  Lionel  forgot  to  be  jealous,  and 
admired  her  more  than  he  ever  had  before. 

Lord  Earle  smiled  as  lie  remarked  to  Lady  Helena  that 
»11  her  fears  for  her  grandchild's  health  were  vain — the 
true  physician  was  come  at  last. 

When  Lord  Airlie  bade  Beatrice  good-night,  he  bent  low 
9ver  the  white,  jeweled  hand. 

"  1  forget  all  time  when  with  you,"  he  said;  "  it  does  not 
«eem  an  hour  sinoe  I  came  to  Earlescourt. " 

The  morrow  brought  the  letter  she  had  dreaded  yet  ex« 
pected  to  see. 

It  was  not  filled  with  loving,  passionate  words,  as  was  the 
first  Hugh  had  written.  He  said  the  timo  had  come  when 
he  must  have  an  answer — when  he  must  know  from  her 
own  lips  at  what,  period  he  might  claim  the  fulfillment  of 
foer  promise — when  she  would  be  his  wife. 


DORA    THORITE.  199 

He  would  wait  no  longer.  If  it  was  to  be  war,  let  the 
war  begin — he  should  wiu.  If  peace,  so  much  the  better. 
Jn  any  case  he  was  tired  of  suspense,  and  must  know  at 
once  what  she  intended  to  do.  He  would  trust  to  no  more 
promises;  that  very  night  he  would  be  at  Earlescourt,  and 
must  see  her.  Still,  though  he  intended  to  enforce  his 
rights,  he  would  not  wantonly  cause  her  pain.  He  would 
not  seek  the  presence  of  her  father  until  she  had  seen  him 
and  they  had  settled  upon  some  plan  of  action. 

"  1  know  the  grounds  around  Earlescourt  well,"  he  wrote. 
"  1  wandered  through  them  for  many  nights  three  weeks 
ago.  A  narrow  path  runs  from  the  gardens  to  the  shrub- 
bery— meet  me  there  at  nine;  it  will  be  dark  then,  and  you 
need  not  fear  being  seen.  Remember,  Beatrice,  at  nine 
to-night  I  shall  be  there;  and  if  you  do  not  come.  I  must 
seek  you  in  the  house,  for  see  you  I  will. " 

The  letter  fell  from  her  hands;  cold  drops  of  fear  and 
shame  stood  upon  her  brow;  hatred  and  disgust  filled  her 
heart.  Oh,  that  she  should  ever  have  placed  herself  in  the 
power  of  such  a  man! 

The  blow  had  fallen  at  last  She  stood  face  to  face  with 
her  shame  and  fear.  How  could  she  me^t  Hugh  Fernely? 
\Yii-it  should  she  say  to  him?  How  must  such  a  meeting 
mil?  It  would  but  anger  him  the  more.  He  should  not 
even  touch  her  luuul  in  greeting,  sbe  said  to  hertelf ;  and 
:  vould  hu  endure  her  contempt? 

She  would  not  see  him.     She  dur,'d  not    How  could  she 
find  time?     Lord  Airlie  i;i^  r  left  her  side.    She  could  not 
Hugh.     The  web  seemed  closing  round  her,  but  she 
would  break  through  it. 

She  would  send  him  a  letter  saying  she  was  ill,  and 
begging  him  to  wait  yet  a  little  longer.  Despite  his  firm 
words,  she  knew  he  would  not  refuse  it  if  she  wrote  kindly. 
Again  came  the  old  hope — something  might  happen  in  a 
few  days.  If  not,  she  must  run  away;  if  even-thing  failed 
and  she  could  not  free  herself  from  him,  then  she  v 
leave  home;  in  any  case  she  would  not  fall  into  his  hands 
• — rather  death  than  that. 

More  than  once  she  thought  of  Caspar's  words.     He 

>o  true,  so  brave — he  would  have  died  for  her.     Ah, 

if  he  could  but  help  her,  if  she  could  but  call  him  to  her 

In  this,  the  dark   hour  of  her  life,  by  her  own  deed 

1  herself  bfeyo'i.' the  reach  of  all  h'i"!;ni  help. 


20(J  DORA    THOBNE. 

She  would  write — upou  that  she  was  determined:  but  w'tie 
would  take  the  letter?  Who  could  she  ask  to  stand  at  the 
shrubbery  gate  and  give  to  the  stranger  a  missive  from 
herself?  If  she  asked  such  a  favor  from  a  servant,  she 
would  part  with  her  secret  to  one  who  might  hold  it  as  a 
rod  of  iron  over  her.  She  was  too  proud  for  that.  There 
was  only  one  in  the  world  who  could  help  her,  and  that  was 
her  sister  Lillian. 

She  shrunk  with  unutterable  shame  from  telling  her.  She 
remembered  how  long  ago  at  Knutsford  she  had  said 
something  that  had  shocked  her  sister,  and  the  scared, 
startled  expression  of  her  face  was  with  her  still.  It  was  a 
humiliation  beyond  all  words.  Yet,  if  she  could  undergo 
it,  there  would  be  comfort  in  Lillian's  sympathy.  Lillian, 
would  take  her  letter,  she  would  see  Hugh,  and  tell  him 
she  was  ill.  Ill  she  felt  in  very  truth.  Hugh  would  be 
pacified  for  a  time  if  he  saw  Lillian.  She  could  think  of 
no  other  arrangement.  That  evening  she  would  tell  her 
sister — there  was  rest  even  in  the  thought 

Long  before  dinner  Lady  Helena  came  in  search  of  Bea- 
trice— it  was  hight  time,  she  said,  that  orders  should  be  sent 
to  London  for  her  trousseau,  and  the  list  must  be  made  out 
at  once. 

She  sat  calmly  in  Lady  Helena's  room,  writing  in  obedi- 
ence to  her  words,  thinking  all  the  time  how  she  should  tell 
Lillian,  how  best  make  her  understand  the  deadly  error 
committed,  yet  save  herself  as  much  as  she  could.  Lady 
Earle  talked  of  laces  and  embroidery,  of  nioruiug-dresses 
and  jewels,  while  Beatrice  went  over  in  her  mind  every 
word  of  her  confession. 

"  That  will  do/'  said  Lady  Earle,  w'ih  a  smile;  *'  I  hava 
been  very  explicit,  but  I  fear  :t  has  been  in  vain.  Have 
you  heard  anything  I  have  said,  Beatrice?" 

She  blushed,  and  looked  so  confused  that  Lady  Helena 
said,  laughingly: 

**  You  may  go— do  not  be  ashamed.  Many  years  ago  I 
was  just  as  much  in  love  myself,  and  just  as  unable  to 
think  of  anything  else  as  you  are  now." 

There  was  some  difficulty  in  finding  Lillian;  she  was  dis- 
covered at  last  in  the  library,  looking  over  some  fine  old 
engravings  with  Mr.  Dacre.  He  looked  up  hastily  when 
Beatrice  asked  her  sister  to  spare  her  half  an  hour. 


DORA    THOBFL.  iJ1.1! 

**  Do  not  go,  Lily,*'  he  said,  jestingly;  *'  it  is  only  some 
nonsense  about  wedding-dresses.  Let  us  finish  this  folio." 

But  Beatrice  had  no  gay  repartee  for  him.  She  looked 
grave,  although  she  tried  to  force  a  smile. 

"  1  can  not  understand  that  girl,"  he  said  to  himself,  aa 
the  library  door  closed  behind  the  two  sisters.  **  I  could 
almost  fancy  that  something  was  distressing  her." 

44  Lily,"  said  Beatrice,  44 1  want  you  very  much.  1  atn 
sorry  to  take  you  from  Lionel;  you  like  being  w:th  him,  J 
think." 

The"  fair  face  of  her  sister  flushed  warmly. 

"  But  I  want  you,  dear,"  said  Beatrice.  4<  Oh,  Lily,  I 
am  in  bitter  trouble!  No  one  can  help  me  but  you/" 

They  went  together  into  the  little  boudoir  Beatrice  called 
her  own.  She  placed  her  sister  in  the  easy  lounging-chair 
drawn  near  the  window,  and  then  half  knelt,  half  sat  at 
her  feet 

"  I  am  in  such  trouble,  Lily!"  she  cried.  44  Think  how 
groat  it  is  when  I  know  not  how  to  tell  you." 

The  sweet,  gentle  eyes  looked  wondoringly  into  her  own. 
Beatrice  clasped  her  sister's  hands. 

44  You  miiat  not  judge  me  harshly,"  she  said,  44 1  ana 
not  good  like  you,  Lily;  I  never  could  be  patient  and  gen- 
tle like  you.  Do  you  remember,  long  ago,  at  Knutsford, 
how  I  found  you  one  morning  upon  the  cliffs,  and  told  you 
how  I  hated  my  life?  I  did  hate  it,  Lillian,"  she  contin- 
ued. 44  You  can  never  tell  how  much:  its  quiet  monotony 
was  killing  me.  I  have  done  wrong;  but  surely  they  are 
to  blame  who  made  my  life  what  it  was  then — who  shut 
me  out  from  the  world,  instead  of  giving  mo  my  rightful 
share  of  its  pleasures.  1  can  not  tell  you  what  1  did,  Lily. " 

Nr^  laid  her  beautiful,  sad  face  on  her  sister's  hand.-:. 
Lillian  bent  over  her,  and  whispered  how  dearly  she  loved 
her,  and  how  she  would  do  anything  to  help  her. 

"  That  very  morning,"  she  said,  never  raising  her  eyes 
to  her  sister's  face — "  that  morning,  Lily,.l  met  a  stranger 
— a  gentleman  he  seemed  to  me — and  he  watched  ino  with 
admiring  eyes.  I  met  him  again,  and  he  spoke  to  me. 
If  vralked  by  my  side  through  the  long  meadows, and  told 
me  strange  stories  of  foreign  lands  he  had  visited — such 
stories!  I  forg«t  that  he  was  a  stranger,  and  talked  to 
him  as  T  am  talking  to  you  now.  I  met  him  again  and 


J802  £K)RA    THOBNB. 

again.     Nay,  do  not  turn  from  me;  1  shall  (lie  if 
shrink  away." 

The  gentle  arms  clasped  her  more  closely. 

"  I  am  not  turning  from  you,"  replied  Lillian.  4l  I  can 
not  love  you  more  than  1  do  now." 

"  I  met  him,"  continued  Beatrice,  "  every  day,  un- 
known to  every  one  about  me.  He  praised  my  beauty,  and 
I  was  filled  with  joy;  then  he  talked  to  me  of  love,  and  I 
listened  without  anger.  I  swear  to  you,"  she  said,  "  that 
I  did  it  all  without  thought;  it  was  the  novelty,  the  flat- 
tery, the  admiration  that  pleased  me,  not  he  himself,  1  be- 
lieve, Lily.  I  rarely  thought  of  him.  He  interested  me; 
he  had  eloquent  words  at  his  command,  and  seeing  how  I 
loved  romance,  he  told  me  stories  of  adventure  that  held 
me  enchained  and  breathless.  I  lost  sight  of  him  in  think- 
ing of  the  wonders  he  related.  They  are  to  blame,  Lily, 
who  shut  me  out  from  the  living  world.  Had  1  been  in  my 
proper  place  here  at  home,  where  I  could  have  seen  and 
judged  people  rightly,  it  would  not  have  happened.  At 
first  it  was  but  a  pleasant  break  in  a  life  dreary  beyond 
words;  then  I  looked  for  the  daily  meed  of  flattery  and 
homage.  I  could  not  do  without  it.  Lily,  will  you  hold 
me  to  have  been  inad  when  I  tell  you  the  time  came  when 
I  allowed  that  man  to  hold  my  hands  as  you  are  doing,  to 
kiss  my  face,  and  win  from  me  a  promise  that  1  would  be 
his  wife?" 

Beatrice  looked  up  then  and  saw  the  fair,  pitying  face 
almost  as  white  as  snow. 

*'  Is  it  worse  than  you  thought?"  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Lillian;  "  terrible,  irretrievable,  I  fear!" 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THERE  was  unbroken  silence  for  some  minutes;  then 
Lillian  bent  over  her  sister,  and  said: 

'  Tell  me  all,  darling;  purhaps  I  can  help  you." 

*'  I  promised  to  be  his  wife,  Lily,"  continued  Beatrice. 
u  1  am  sure  I  did  not  mean  it.  1  was  but  a  child.  I  did 
not  realize  all  that  the  words  meant.  He  kissed  my  face, 
and  said  he  should  come  to  claim  me.  Believe  me,  Lily., 
1  nev«r  thought  of  marriage.  Brilliant,  pictures  of  foreign 
lands  6!le3  n^-  rniud;  I  looked  upon  Hugh  Fenu  ' .  Vj  sue 


DORA    THORHH.  SJ05 

•  means  of  escape  from  a  life  I  detested.  He  promised  to 
take  ine  to  places  the  names  of  which  filled  me  with  won- 
der. 1  never  thought  of  leaving  you  or  mamma — I  never 
thought  of  the  man  himself  as  of  a  lover." 

'  You  did  not  care  for  him,  then,  as  you  do  for  Lord 
Airlie?'*  interposed  Lillian. 

"  Po  not  puin  uiel'*  begged  Beatrice.  "  1  love  Hubert 
with  the  love  that  comes  but  once  in  life;  that  man  was 
nothing  to  me,  except  that  his  flattery,  and  the  excitement 
of  contriving  to  meet  him,  made  my  life  more  endurable. 
He  gave  me  a  ring,  and  said  in  two  years*  time  he  should 
return  to  claim  inc.  He  was  going  on  a  long  voyage. 
Lily,  1  felt  relieved  when  he  was  gone — the  novelty  was 
over — I  had  grown  tired.  Besides,  when  the  glamour  fell 
fr  in  m>-  eyes,  I  was  ashaintd  of  what  I  had  done.  I  tried 
to  forget  all  about  him;  every  time  the  remembrance  of 
him  came  to  my  mind  1  drove  it  from  me.  I  did  not 
think  it  possible  he  would  ever  return.  It  was  but  a  sum- 
mer's pastime.  That  summer  has  darkened  my  life. 
Looking  back,  1  own  1  did  very  wrong.  There  is  great 
blame  attaching  to  me,  but  surely  they  who  shut  me  out 
from  Mio  living  world  were  blameworthy  also. 

"  Remember  all  through  my  story,  darling,  that  lam  not 
so  good,  not  BO  patient  and  gentle  aa  you.  1  was  restle-a 
at  the  Elms,  like  a  bird  in  a  cage;  yon  were  content.  I 
was  vain,  foolish,  and  willful;  but,  looking  back  at  the  im- 
petuous, imperious  child,  full  of  romance,  untrained,  long- 
ing for  the  strife  of  life,  longing  for  change,  for  excitement, 
for  gayety,  chafing  under  restraint,  1  think  there  was  some 
little  excuse  for  me.  There  was  no  excuse  for  what  fol- 
lowed. When  papa  spoke  to  us — you  remember  it,  Lily 
— and  asked  so  gently  if  we  had  either  of  as  a  secret  in  our 
lives — when  he  promised  to  pardon  anything,  provided  we 
kept  nothing  from  him — I  ought  to  have  told  him  thru. 
There  is  no  excuse  for  that  error.  I  was  ashamed.  Look 
ing  round  upon  the  noble  faces  hanging  on  the  wall,  look' 
ing  at  him,  so  proud,  BO  dignified,  1  could  not  tell  him 
what  his  child  had  done.  Oh,  Lily,  if  I  had  told  him,  1 
chould  not  be  kneeling  here  at  your  feet  now." 

Lillian  inuJe  no  reply,  but  pressed  the  proud,  drooping 
figure  more  closely  to  her  siile. 

"  1  ("in  hardly  tell  the  rest,**  said  Beatrice;  "  the  words 
f  ri^lr  ::ter  them.  This  man,  who  has  been  th» 


204  DOEA    THOR5TE. 

bane  of  my  life,  w.as  going  away  for  two  years.  He  waa 
to  claim  me  when  he  returned.  I  never  thought  he  would 
return;  1  was  so  happy,  1  could  not  believe  it."  Here 
sobs  choked  her  utterance. 

Presently  she  continued:  "Lily,  he  is  here;  he  claims 
me,  and  also  the  fulfillment  of  my  promise  to  be  his  wife." 

A  look  of  unutterable  dread  came  over  the  listener's 
tair,  pitying  face. 

"  He  wrote  to  me  three  weeks  since;  I  tried  to  put  him 
D!T.  He  wrote  again  this  morning,  and  swears  he  will  see 
me.  He  will  be  here  to-night  at  nine  o'clock.  Oh,  Lily, 
save  me,  save  me,  or  1  shall  die!" 

Bitcer  soos  broke  from  the  proud  lips. 

"  I  never  knelt  to  any  one  before,"  Beatrice  said;  "  1 
tfneel  to  you,  my  sister.  No  one  else  can  help  me.  You 
must  see  him  for  me,  give  him  a  letter  from  me,  and  tell 
him  I  am  very  ill.  It  is  no  untruth,  Lily.  1  am  ill,  my 
brain  burns,  and  my  heart;  is  cold  with  fear.  Will  you  do 
this  for  me?" 

"  I  would  rather  almost  give  you  my  life,"  said  Lillian, 
gently. 

"  Oh,  do  not  say  that,  Lilyf  Do  you  know  what  there 
is  at  stake?  Do  you  remember  papa's  words — that,  if  ever 
he  found  one  of  us  guilty  of  any  decsiD,  or  involved  in  any 
clandestine  love  affair,  even  if  it.  broke  his  neart  he  would 
send  the  guilty  one  from  him  and  never  see  her  again? 
Think,  darling,  what  it  would  be  for  me  to  leave  Earles- 
court — to  leave  all  the  magnificence  1  love  so  dearly,  and 
drag  out  a  weary  life  at  the  Elms.  Do  you  think  I  could 
brook  Lord  Earle's,  angry  scorn  and  Lady  Helena's  pained 
wonder?  Knowing  our  father  as  you  know  him,  do  you 
believe  he  would  pardon  me?" 

"  I  do  not,"  replied  Lily,  sadly. 

"  That  is  not  all/'  continued  Beatrice.  "  1  might  beat 
&nger,  scorn,  and  privation,  but,  Lily,  if  this  miserable 
secret  is  discovered,  Lord  Airlie  will  cease  to  love  me.  He 
might  have  forgiven  me  if  1  had  told  him  at  first;  he 
would  now  know  that  1  had  lied  to  him  and  deceived  him. 
1  can  not  lose  him — I  can  not  give  him  up.  For  our 
mother's  sake,  for  iny  sake,  heip  me,  Lily.  Do  what  I 
have  asked!" 

"  If  1  do  it,"  said  Lillian,  "  it  will  give  you  but  a  few 
flays'  reprieve:  it  will  avail  nothing;  he  will  be  here  again.'5 


DORA    THOBNB.  205 

*'  I  shall  think  of  some  means  of  escape  in  a  few  days,' 
answered  Beatrice,  wistfully.  "  Something  must  Happen, 
Lily;  fortune  could  not  be  so  cruel  to  me;  it  could  not  rob 
me  of  my  love.  If  I  can  not  free  myself  1  shall  run  away. 
1  would  rather  suffer  anything  than  face  Lord  Airlie  or  my 
father.  Say  you  will  help  me  for  my  love's  sake!  Do  net 
let  me  lose  my  love!" 

"  I  will  help  you,"  said  Lillian;  "  it  is  against  my  bet- 
ter judgment — against  my  idea  of  right — but  I  can  not  re- 
fuse you.  I  will  see  the  man,  and  give  him  your  letter. 
Beatrice,  let  me  persuade  you.  You  can  not  free  yourself. 
I  see  no  way — running  away  is  all  nonsense— but  to  tell 
Lord  Earle  and  your  lover;  anything  would  be  better  than 
to  live  as  you  do,  a  drawn  sword  hanging  over  your  head. 
Tell  them,  and  trust  to  their  kindness;  at  least  you  wi'l 
have  peace  of  mind  then.  They  will  prevent  him  from  ai>- 
noying  you." 

"  1  can  not,"  she  said,  and  the  breath  came  gasping 
from  her  lips.  "  Lillian,  you  do  not  know  what  Lor5 
Airlie  is  to  me.  I  could  never  meet  his  anger.  If  ever 
you  love  any  one  you  will  understand  better.  He  is  every- 
thing to  me.  I  would  suffer  any  sorrow,  even  death, 
rather  than  see  his  face  turned  coldly  from  me." 

She  loosened  her  grasp  of  Lillian  s  hands  and  fell  upon 
the  floor,  weeping  bitterly  and  passionately.  Her  sister, 
bunding  over  her,  heard  the  pitiful  words — "  My  love,  my 
love!  1  can  not  lose  my  love!" 

The  passionate  weeping  ceased,  and  the  proud,  sad  face 
grew  calm  and  still. 

"  You  can  not  tell  what  I  have  suffered,  Lily,"  she  said, 
humbly.  *'  See,  my  pride  is  all  beaten  down;  only  those 
who  have  had  a  secret,  eating  heart  and  life  away,  can  tell 
what  I  havo  endured.  A  few  more  days  of  agpuy  like  this, 
*nd  1  shall  be  free  forever  from  Hugh  Fernely." 

1  lur  sister  tried  to  soothe  her  with  gentle  words,  but  they 
brought  no  comfort. 

**  He  will  be  here  at  nine,"  she  said;  "  it  is  six  now. 
will  write  my  letter.     He  will  be  at  the  shrubbery  gate.     I 
will  manage  so  that  you  shall  have  time.     Give  him  the 
note  1  will  write,  speak  to  him  for  me,  tell  him  I  am  ill 
and  can  not  see  him.     Shall  you  be  frighten 

"  Yes,"  replied  Lillian,  gently;  "  but  that  will  not  mat 
tor.  I  must  think  of  you,  not  of  myself." 


806 

**  You  need  not  fear  him, "  said  Beatrice.  **  Poor  Hugh, 
I  could  pity  him  if  1  did  not  hate  him.  Lily,  I  will  thank 
you  when  my  agony  is  over;  I  can  not  now." 

She  wrote  but  a  few  words,  saying  she  was  ill  and  unable 
to  see  him;  he  must  be  satisfied,  and  willing  to  wait  yet  a 
little  longer. 

She  gave  the  letter  to  her  sister.  Lil Han's  heart  ached 
as  she  noted  the  trembling  hands  and  quivering  lips. 

"  I  have  not  asked  you  to  keep  my  secret,  Lily,"  said 
Beatrice,  sorrowfully. 

**  There  is  no  need,"  was  the  simple  reply. 
******* 

Sir  Harry  and  Lady  Laurence  dined  that  day  at  Earles- 
court,  and  it  was  nearly  nine  before  the  gentlemen,  who 
did  not  sit  long  over  their  wine,  came  into  the  drawing- 
room.  The  evening  was  somewhat  chilly;  a  bright  tire 
burned  in  the  grate,  and  the  lamps  were  lighted.  Sir 
Harry  sat  down  to  his  favorite  game  of  chess  with  Lady 
Helena;  Lord  Earle  challenged  Lady  Laurence  to  a  game 
at  ecarte.  The  young  people  were  left  to  themselves. 

"  In  twenty  years'  time,"  said  Lionel  to  Lillian,  "  we 
may  seek  refuge  in  cards;  at  present  music  and  moonlight 
are  preferable,  Lily.  You  never  sing  to  me;  come  to  the 
piano  now." 

But  she  remembered  the  dreaded  hour  was  drawing  near. 

"  Pray  excuse  me,"  she  begged;  "  I  will  sing  for  you 
presently." 

He  looked  surprised;  it  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever 
refused  him  a  favor. 

"  Shall  we  finish  the  folio  of  engravings?"  he  asked. 

Knowing  that,  when  once  she  was  seated  by  his  side,  it 
would  be  impossible  to  get  away,  she  again  declined;  but 
this  time  the  fair  face  flushed,  and  the  sweet  eyes  drooped. 

"  How  guilty  you  look,"  he  said.  "  Is  there  any  mys- 
tery on  hand?  Are  you  tired  of  me?  Or  is  there  to  be 
another  important  consultation  over  the  ivedding-dresses?" 

"  1  have  something  to  attend  to,"  she  replied,  evasively. 
'*  Get  the  folio  ready — I  shall  not  be  long. 

Beatrice,  who  had  listened  to  the  brief  dialogue  in  fever- 
ish suspense,  now  came  to  the  rescue,  asking  Lionel  to  give 
them  the  beueiit  of  his  clear,  ringing  tenor  in  a  trio  of 
Mendelssohn's. 

**  My  *  clear,  ringing  tenor  '  is  quite  at  your  service.*1 


DORA    THORNS.  907 

be  said  with  a  smile.     "  Lily  is  very  unkind  to  me  to* 
night," 

They  went  to  the  piano,  where  Lord  Airlie  awaited  them; 

iii;  .    Lillian,  looking  at  her  small,  jeweled  watch — Lord 

's  present — saw  that  it  wanted  three  minutes  to  nine. 

She  at  once  quitted  the  room,  unobserved,  as  she 
thought;  but  Lionel  saw  her  go. 

No  words  can  tell  how  distasteful  and  repugnant  was  tLe 
task  she  had  undertaken.  She  would  have  suffered  any- 
thing almost  to  have  evaded  it.  She,  who  never  had  a  se- 
cret; she,  whose  every  word  and  action  were  open  as  the 
d;iy;  she,  who  shrunk  from  all  deceit  and  untruth  as  from 
a  deadly  plague,  to  be  mixed  up  with  a  wretched  clan- 
destine love  affair  like  this!  She,  to  steal  out  of  her 
father's  house  at  night,  I  j  meet  a  stranger,  and  plead  her 
sister's  cause  with  him!  The  thought  horrified  her;  but 
the  beautiful  face  iii  its  wild  sorrow,  the  sad  voice  in  its  pas- 
sionate anguish,  urged  her  on. 

Lillian  went  hastily  to  her  own  room.  She  took  a  large 
oki  k  shawl  and  drew  it  closely  round  her,  hiding  the 
prrtiy  evening-dress  and  the  rich  pearls.  Then,  with  the 
letter  in  her  hand,  she  went  down  the  staircase  that  led 
fr<>iu  her  rooms  to  the  garden. 

The  night  was  dark;  heavy  clouds  sailed  swiftly  across 
the  sky,  the  wind  moaned  fitfully,  bending  the  tall  trees  as 
it  were  in  anger,  then  whispering  round  them  as  though 
suing  for  pardon.  Lillian  had  never  been  out  at  nignt 
alone  before,  and  her  first  sensation  was  one  of  fear.  She 
crossed  the  gardens  where  the  autumn  flowers  were  fading; 
the  lights  shone  gayly  from  the  Hull  windows;  the  shrub- 
bery looked  dark  and  mysterious.  She  was  frightened  at 
the  silence  and  darkness,  but  went  brbvely  on.  He  was  there. 
By  the  gate  she  saw  a  tall  figure  wrapped  in  a  traveling- 
cloak;  as  she  crossed  the  path  he  stepped  hastily  forward, 
crying  with  a  voice  she  never  forgot: 
titrice,  at  last  you  have  cotne?" 

"  It  is  not  Beatrice,"  she  said,  shrinking  from  the  out* 
stretched  arms.  "  I  am  Lillian  Earle.  My  sister  is  ill, 
»ud  has  sent  you  this. " 


JOB  "   DOBA    THORNE. 


CHAPTER  XXXVL 

HUGH  FERNELY  took  the  letter  from  Lillian's  hands 
and  read  it  with  a  muttered  imprecation  of  disappointment. 
The  moon,  which  had  been  struggling  for  the  last  hour 
with  a  mass  of  clouds,  shone  out  faintly;  by  its  light  Lil- 
lian saw  a  tall  man  with  a  dark,  handsome  face  browned 
with  the  sun  of  warm  climes,  dark  eyes  that  had  in  them 
a  wistful  sadness,  and  firm  lips,  fle  did  not  look  like  the 
gentlemen  she  was  accustomed  to.  He  was  polite  and  re- 
spectful. When  he  heard  her  name,  he  took  off  his  hat, 
and  stood  uncovered  during  the  interview. 

"  Wait!"  he  cried.  "  Ah,  must  I  wait  yet  longer?  Tell 
your  sister  I  have  waited  until  my  yearning  wish  to  see  her 
is  wearing  my  life  away." 

"  She  is  really  ill,"  returned  Lillian.  "  I  am  alarmed 
for  her.  Do  not  be  angry  with  me  if  I  say  she  is  ill 
through  anxiety  and  /ear." 

*'  Has  she  sent  you  to  excuse  her?"  he  asked,  gloomily. 
"  It  is  of  no  flse.  Your  sister  is  my  promised  wife,  Misa 
Lillian,  and  see  her  I  will." 

"  You  must  wait  at  least  until  she  is  willing,"  said.  Lil- 
lian, and  her  calm,  dignified  manner  influenced  him  even 
more  than  her  words,  as  she  looked  earnestly  into  Hugh 
Ferneiy's  face. 

It  was  not  a  bad  face,  she  thought;  there  was  no  cruelty 
or  meanness  there.  She  read  love  so  fierce  and  violent  in 
it  that  it  startled  her.  He  did  not  look  like  one  who  would 
wantonly  and  willfully  make  her  sister  wretched  for  life. 
-Hope  grew  in  her  hff&rt  as  she  gazed.  She  resolved  to 
plead  with  him  for  Beatrice,  to  ask  him  to  forget  a  child- 
\sh,  foolish  promise — a  childish  error. 

"  My  sister  is  very  unhappy,"  she  said,  bravely;  **  so 
cnhappy  that  I  do  not  think  she  can  bear  much  more;  it 
will  kill  her,  or  drive  her  mad." 

"  It  is  killing  me,"  he  interrupted. 

"  You  do  not  look  cruel.  Mr.  Pernely,"  continued  I^il- 

lian.     "  Your  face  is  good  and  true — I  would  trust  you. 

Release  my  sister.     She  was  but  a  foolish,  impetuous  child 

she  made  yon  that  promise.     If  she  keeps  it,  all  he* 

Lfo  wil.i  r>o  wr^-.f'Lu'd.     Be  generous  and  release  1 


DORA    THORNE.  £09 

*'  Did  she  bid  yon  ask  me?'*  he  interrogated. 

**  No,"  she  replied;  "  but  do  you  know  what  the  keep- 
ing of  the  promise  will  cost  her?  Lord  Earle  will  never 
forgive  her.  She  will  have  to  leave  home,  sister,  friends 
— all'  she  loves  a;id  values  most.  Judge  whether  she  couldt 
ever  care  for  you,  if  you  brought  this  upon  her." 

"  I  can  not  help  it,"  ke  said,  gloomily.  "  She  prom- 
ised to  be  my  wife,  Miss  Lillian — Heaven  knows  I  am 
speaking  truthfully — and  1  have  lived  on  her  words.  You 
do  not  know  what  the  strong  love  of  a  true  man  is.  I  love 
her  so  that  if  she  chose  to  place  her  little  foot  upon  me, 
and  trample  the  life  out  of  me,  1  would  not  say  her  nay. 
I  must  seo  her— the  hungry,  yearning  love  that  tills  my 
heart  must  be  satisfied."  Great  tears  shone  in  his  eyes, 
and  deep  sobs  shook  his  strong  frame. 

"  I  will  not  harm  her,"  he  said,  "  but  I  must  see  her. 
Once,  and  once  only,  her  beautiful  face  lay  on  my  breast — 
that  beautiful,  proud  face!  No  mother  ever  yearned  to  see 
her  child  again  more  than  I  long  to  see  her.  •  Let  her  come 
to  me,  Miss  Lillian;  let  me  kneel  at  her  feet  as  I  did  be* 
fore.  If  she  sends  me  from  her,  there  will  be  pity  in 
death;  but  she  can  not.  There  is  not  a  woman  in  the 
worlvl  who  could  send  such  love  as  mine  away!  You  can 
not  understand,"  he  continued.  "  It  is  more  than  two 
years  since  1  left  her;  night  and  day  her  face  has  been  be- 
fore me.  I  have  lived  upon  my  love;  it  is  my  life — my 
everything.  I  could  no  more  drive  it  from  my  breast  than 
I  could  tear  my  heart  from  my  body  and  still  live  on. " 

"  Even  if  my  sister  cared  for  you,"  said  Lillian,  gently 
— for  his  passionate  words  touched  her — "  you  must  know- 
that  Lord  Earle  would  never  allow  her  to  keep  such  a 
promise  as  she  made." 

*'  She  knew  nothing  of  Lord  Earle  when  it  was  made," 

he  replied,  "  nor  did  1.     She  was  a  beautiful  child,  pining 

away  like  a  bright  bird  shut  up  in  a  cage.     I  promised  her 

>m  and  liberty;  she  promised  me  her  love.     Where 

rle  then?    She  was  safe  with  me.     1  loved 

her.     I  was  kinder  to  her  than  her  own  father;  I  took  care 

of  her— he  did  not." 

"  It  is  all  changed  now,"  said  Lillian. 

"  r.iif  1  can  not  '1  ningp,"  he  answered.  **  If  fortune 
ha<]  ;  ;<1  I  have  loved  your  --leas! 


210  DORA  THORNE. 

Is  a  man's  heart  a  plaything  ?    Can  I  call  back  my  love  ? 
It  has  caused  me  woe  enough." 

Lillian  knew  not  what  to  say  in  the  presence  of  this 
mighty  love  ;  her  gentle  efforts  at  mediation  were  boot- 
less. She  pitied  him — she  pitied  Beatrice. 

•'I  am  sure  you  can  be  generous,"  she  said,  after  a 
short  silence.  "  Great,  true,  noble  love  is  never  selfish. 
My  sister  can  never  be  happy  with  you  ;  then  release  her. 
If  you  force  her,  or  rather  try  to  force  her,  to  keep  this 
rash  promise,  think  how  she  will  dislike  you.  If  you  are 
generous,  and  release  her,  think  how  she  will  esteem  you." 

"  Does  she  not  love  me  ? "  he  asked  ;  and  his  voice  was 
hoarse  with  pain. 

"No,"  replied  Lillian,  gently  ;  "it  is  better  for  you  to 
know  the  truth.  She  does  not  love  you — she  never  will." 

"I  do  not  believe  it ;  "  he  cried.  "  I  will  never  believe 
it  from  any  lips  but  her  own  ;  Not  love  me  !  Great 
Heaven  !  Do  you  know  you  are  speaking  of  the  woman 
who  promised  to  be  my  wife  ?  If  she  tells  me  so,  I  will 
believe  her." 

"  She  will  tell  you,"  said  Lillian,  "and  you  must  not 
blame  her.  Come  again  when  she  is  well." 

"  No,"  returned  Hugh  Fernely  ;  "I  have  waited  long 
enough.  I  am  here  to  see  her,  and  I  swear  I  will  not 
leave  until  she  has  spoken  to  me." 

He  drew  a  pencil-case  from  his  pocket,  and  wrote  a  few 
lines  on  the  envelope  which  Beatrice  had  sent. 

"  Give  that  to  your  sister,"  he  said,  softly  ;  "  and,  Miss 
Lillian,  I  thank  you  for  coming  to  me.  You  have  been 
very  kind  and  gentle.  You  have  a  fair,  true  face.  Never 
break  a  man's  heart  for  pastime,  or  because  the  long 
sunny  hours  hang  heavy  upon  your  hands." 

"  I  wish  I  could  say  something  to  comfort  you,"  she 
said.  He  held  out  his  hand  and  she  could  not  refuse  hers. 

"  Good-bye,  Miss  Lillian  !  Heaven  bless  you  for  your 
sympathy." 

"  Good-bye,"  she  returned,  looking  at  the  dark,  pas- 
sionate face  she  was  never  more  to  see. 

The  moon  was  hidden  behind  a  dense  mass  of  thick 
clouds.  Hugh  Fernely  walked  quickly  down  the  path. 
Lillian,  taking  the  folded  paper,  hastened  across  the  gar- 
dens. But  neither  of  them  saw  a  tall,  erect  figure,  or  a 


DORA    THORITE.  %1\ 

pale,  stricken  face;  neither  of  them  heard  Lionel  Dacre 
utter  a  low  cry  as  the  shawl  fell  from  Lillian's  golden  head. 

He  had  tried  over  the  trio,  but  it  did  not  please  him;  he 
did  not  want  music — he  wanted  Lillian.  Beatrice  played 
badly,  too,  as  though  she  did  not  know  what  she  was  do- 
ing. Plainly  enough  Lord  Airlie  wanted  him  out  of  the 
way. 

Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Beatrice,  as  he  placed 
the  music  on  the  piano. 

"  To  look  for  a  good  cigar/'  he  replied.  "  Neither  Air- 
lie  nor  you  need  pretend  to  be  polite,  Bee,  and  say  you 
hope  1  will  not  leave  you."  He  quitted  the  drawing-room, 
ami  went  to  his  own  room,  where  a  box  of  cigars  awaited 
him.  He  selected  one,  and  went  out  into  the  garden  to 
enjoy  it.  Was  it  chance  that  led  him  to  the  path  by  the 
shrubbery?  The  wind  swayed  the  tall  branches,  but  there 
came  a  lull,  and  then  he  heard  a  murmur  of  voices.  Look- 
ing over  the  hedge,  he  saw  the  tall  figure  of  a  man,  and 
the  slight  figure  of  a  young  girl  shrouded  in  a  black  shawl. 

"  A  maid  and  her  sweetheart/'  said  Lionel  to  himself. 
41  Now  that  is  not  precisely  the  kind  of  thing  Lord  Earle 
would  like;  still,  it  is  no  business  of  mine." 

But  the  man's  voice  struck  him — it  was  full  of  the  dig- 
nity of  true  passion.  He  wondered  who  he  was.  He  saw 
the  young  girl  place  her  hand  in  his  for  a  moment,  and 
then  hasten  rapidly  away. 

He  thought  himself  stricken  mad  when  the  black  shawl 
fell  and  showed  in  the  faint  moonlight  the  fair  face  and 

golden  hair  of  Lillian  Earle. 

******* 

"When  Lillian  re-entered  the  drawing-room,  the  pretty 
ormulu  clock  was  chiming  half  past  nine.  The  chess-  and 
ca*l- tables  were  just  as  she  had  left  them.  Beatrice  and 
Lord  Airlie  were  still  at  the  piano.  Lionel  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen.  She  went  up  to  Beatrice  and  smilingly  asked 
Lord  Airlie  it  he  could  spare  her  sister  for  five  minutes. 

"  Ten,  if  you  wish  it,"  he  replied,  -*'  but  no  longer;" 
And  the  two  sisters  walked  through  the  long  drawing-room 
into  the  little  boudoir. 

"  Quick,  Lillian,"  cried  Beatrice,  "  have  you  seen  him? 
What  does  he  say?" 

"  1  have  sern  him,"  she  replied;  "  there  is  no  time  now 
**  tell  all  he  said.  He  sent  this  note,"  and  Lillian 


DORA    THORNS. 

the  folded  paper  into  her  sister's  hand,  and  then  clasped 
both  hands  in  her  own. 

"  Let  me  tell  you,  Beatrice  darling,  before  you  read  it/' 
she  said,  "  that  1  tried  to  soften  his  heart;  and  1  think,  il 
you  will  see  him  yourself,  and  ask  for  your  freedom,  you 
will  not  ask  in  vain. " 

A  light  that  was  dazzling  as  sunshine  came  into  the 
beautiful  face. 

"  Oh,  Lily/'  she  cried,  "  can  it  be  true?  Do  not  mock 
me  with  false  hopes;  my  life  seems  to  tremble  in  the  bal- 
ance. " 

"  He  is  not  cruel,"  said  Lillian.  "  I  am  sorry  for  him. 
If  yon  see  him  I  feel  sure  he  will  release  you.  See  what  ne 
says. " 

Beatrice  opened  the  letter;  it  contained  but  a  few  pen- 
ciled lines.  She  did  not  give  them  to  Lillian  to  read. 

"  BEATRICE,"  wrote  Hugh  Fernely,  "  you  must  tell  me 
with  your  own  lips  that  you  do  not  love  me.  You  must 
tell  me  yourself  that  every  sweet  hope  you  gave  me  was  a 
false  lie.  1  will  not  leave  Earlescourt  again  without  seeing 
you.  On  Thursday  night,  at  ten  o'clock,  I  will  be  at  the 
same  place — meet  me,  and  tell  me  if  you  want  your  freedom. 

"HUGH." 

*'  I  shall  win!"  she  cried.  **  Lily,  hold  my  hands — they 
tremble  with  happiness.  See,  I  can  not  hold  the  paper. 
He  will  release  me,  and  I  shall  not  lose  my  love — my  love, 
who  is  all  the  world  to  me.  How  must  I  thank  you?  This 
is  Tuesday;  how  shall  I  live  until  Thursday?  I  feel  as 
though  a  load,  a  burden,  the  weight  of  which  no  words  can 
tell,  were  taken  from  me.  Lily,  I  shall  be  Lord  Airlie's 
wife,  and  you  will  have  saved  me." 

"  Beatrice,"  said  Lord  Earle,  as  the  sisters,  in  return* 
ing,  passed  by  the  chess-table,  **  our  game  is  finished;  will 
you  give  us  a  song?" 

Never  had  the  magnificent  voice  rung  out  so  joyously, 
never  had  the  beautiful  face  looked  so  bright.  She  sung 
something  that  was  like  an  air  .of  triumph— no  under-cur- 
rent of  sadness  marred  its  passionate  sweetness.  Lord  Air* 
lie  bent  over  her  chair  enraptured. 

'  You  sing  like  one  inspired,  Beatrice,"  he  said. 

**  I  was  thinking  of  you."  she  replied:  and  he  saw  bf 


ilOBA    THOUNE. 

the  dreamy,  rapt  expression  of  her  face  that  she  meant 
what  she  had  said. 

Presently  Lord  Airlie  was  gammoned  to  Lady  Helena's 
assistance  in  some  little  argument  over  cards,  and  Bea- 
trice, \vhilt)  her  fingers  strayed  mechanically  over  the  keys, 
arrived  at  her  decision.  She  would  see  Hugh.  She  could 
not  avert  that;  and  she  must  meet  him  as  bravely  as  sho 
could.  After  all,  as  Lillian  had  said,  he  was  not  cruel, 
and  he  did  love  her.  The  proud  lip  curled  in  scornful 
triumph  as  she  thought  how  dearly  he  loved  her.  Sh^ 
would  appeal  to  his  love,  and  beseech  him  to  release  her. 

She  would  beseech  him  with  such  urgency  that  he  couid 
not  refuse.  Who  ever  refused  her?  Could  she  not  move 
men's  .hearts  as  the  wind  moves  the  leaves?  He  would  be 
angry  at  first,  perhaps  fierce  and  passionate,  but  in  the  end 
she  would  prevail.  As  she  sat  there,  dreamy,  tender  mel- 
odies stealing,  as  it  were,  from  her  fingers,  she  went  in 
fancy  through  the  whole  scene.  She  knew  how  silent  the 
sleeping  woods  would  be — how  dark  and  still  the  night. 
She  could  imagine  Hugh's  face,  browned  by  the  sun  and 
travel.  Poor  Hugh!  In  the  overflow  of  her  happiness  she 
felt  more  kindly  toward  him, 

She  wished  him  well.  He  .might  marry  some  nice  girl 
in  his  own  station  of  life,  and  'ue  a  prosperous,  happy  man, 
and  she  would  be  a  good  friend  to  him  if  he  would  let  her. 
Xo  OIK-  would  ever  know  her  secret.  Lillian  would  keep  it 
faithfully,  anil  down  tho  fair  vista  of  years  she  saw  herself 
Lord  Airlie's  beloved  wife,  the  error  of  her  youth  repaired 
and  forgotten. 

This  picture  was  so  pleasant  that  it  was  no  wonder  her 
songs  grew  more  triumphant.  Those  who  listened  to  the 
music  that  night  never  forgot  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

LIONEL  DACTTE  stood  for  some  minutes  stunned  with  the 

shock  and  surprise.     He  could  not  be  mistaken;  unless  his 

s  played  him  false,  it  was  Lillian  Earle  whom  he  had 

mistaken  for  a  maid  meeting  her  lover.     It  was  Lillian  he 

had  believed  so  pure  and  guileless  who  had  stolen  from  her 

father's  house  under  the  cover  of  night's  darkness  and 

fcilence — who  hud  met  in  her  father's  grounds  one 

ehe  dared  not  nurt  in  the  light  of  day. 

" 


314  DOBA    THOENE. 

If  his  dearest  friend  had  sworn  this  to  Lionel  he  would 
not  have  believed  it.  His  own  senses  he  could  not  doubt. 
The  faint,  feeble  moonlight  had  as  surely  fallen  on  the  fair 
face  and  golden  hair  of  Lillian  Earle  as  the  sun  shone  by 
day  in  the  sky. 

He  threw  away  his  cigar,  and  ground  his  teeth  with  rage. 
Had  the  skies  fallen  at  his  feet  he  could  not  have  been 
more  startled  and  amazed.  Then,  after  all,  all  women 
were  alike.  There  was  in  them  no  truth;  no  goodness; 
the  whole  world  was  alike.  Yet  he  had  believed  in  her  so 
implicitly — in  her  guileless  purity,  her  truth,  her  freedom 
from  every  taint  of  the  world.  That  fair,  spirituelle  forn» 
had  seemed  to  him  only  as  a  beautiful  casket  hiding  * 
precious  gem.  Nay,  still  more,  though  knowing  and  lov> 
ing  her,  he  had  begun  to  care  for  everything  good  and  pun 
that  interested  her.  Now  all  was  false  and  hateful. 

There  was  no  truth  in  the  world,  he  said  to  himself 
This  girl,  whom  he  hadbelieved  to  be  the  fairest  and  sweet- 
est among  women,  was  but  a  more  skillful  deceiver  than 
the  rest.  His  mother's  little  deceptions,  hiding  narrow 
means  and  straitened  circumstances,  were  as  nothing  coin 
pared  with  Lillian's  deceit. 

And  he  had  loved  her  so!  Loo'  ing  into  (b^p  tender 
eyes,  he  had  beiijved  love  and  truth  shoiii-  there;  the 
dear  face  that  had  blushed  and  smiled  for  him  hud  looked 
so  pure  and  guileless. 

How  long  was  it  since  he  had  held  her  little  hands 
clasped  within  his  own,  and,  abashed  before  her  sweet  in- 
nocence, had  not  dared  to  touch  her  lips,  even  when  she 
had  promised  to  love  him?  How  he  had  been  duped  and 
deceived!  How  she  must  have  laughed  at  his  blind  folly! 

Who  was  the  man?  Some  one  she  mast  have  known 
years  before.  There  was  no  gentleman  in  Lord  Earle's 
circle  who  would  have  stolen  into  his  grounds  like  a  thief 
by  night.  Why  had  he  not  followed  him,  and  thrashed 
him  within  an  inch  of  his  life?  Why  had  he  let  him 
escape? 

The  strong  hands  were  clinched  tightly.  It  was  well  for 
Hugh  Fernely  that  he  was  not  at  that  moment  in  Lionel's 
power.  Then  the  fierce,  hot  anger  died  away,  and  a  pas- 
sion of  despair  seized  him.  A  long,  low  cry  came  from  his 
Jipb,  a  bitter  sob  shook  his  frame.  He  had  lost  his  fair. 


DORA    THORITE.  215 

sweet  love.     The  ideal    he  had  worshiped   lay  stricken; 
falsehood  and  deceit  marred  its  fair  form. 

While  the  first  smart  of  pain  was  upon  him,  he  would 
not  return  to  the  house;  he  would  wait  until  he  was  calm 
and  cool.  Then  he  would  see  how  she  dared  to  meet  him. 

His  hands  ceased  to  tremble;  the  strong,  angry  pulsatioc 
of  his  heart  grew  calmer.  He  went  back  to  the  drawing- 
room;  and,  except  that  the  handsome  face  was  pale  even 
to  the  lips,  and  that  a  strange,  angry  light  gleamed  in  the 
frank,  kindly  eyes,  there  was  little  difference  in  Lionel 
Dacre. 

She  was  there,  bending  over  the  large  folio  he  had  asked 
her  to  show  Lina;  the  golden  hair  fell  upon  the  leaves.  She 
looked  up  as  he  entered;  her  face  was  calm  and  serene; 
there  was  a  faint  pink  flush  on  the  cheeks,  and  a  bright 
smile  trembled  on  her  features. 

"  IFere  are  the  drawings/'  she  said;  "  will  you  look  over 
them?" 

He  remembered  how  he  had  asked  her  to  sing  to  him, 
•nd  she  refused,  looking  confused  and  uneasy  the  while. 
He  understood  now  the  reason  why. 

Ifi1  took  a  chair  by  her  side;  the  folio  lay  upon  a  table 
placed  in  a  large  recess,  lighted  by  a  silver  lamp.  They 
were  as  much  alone  there  as  though  they  had  been  in  an- 
other room.  She  took  out  a  drawing,  and  laid  it  before 
him.  He  neither  saw  it  nor  heard  what  she  remarked. 

"  Lillian,"  ho  said,  suddenly,  "  if  you  were  asked  what 
was  the  most  deadly  sin  a  woman  could  commit,  what 
should  you  reply?" 

"  That  is  a  strange  question/'  she  answered.  *'  I  do 
not  know,  Lionel.  I  think  I  hate  all  sin  alike." 

"  Then  1  will  tell  you,"  he  said,  bitterly;  "  it  is  false, 
foul  deceit— black,  heartless  treachery." 

She  looked  up  in  amazement  at  his  angry  tone;  then 
there  was  for  some  moments  unbroken  silence. 

"I  can  not  see  the  drawings,"  he  said;  "take  them 
away.  Lillian  Earle,  raise  your  eyes  to  mine;  look  me 
straight  in  the  face.  How  long  is  it  since  I  asked  you  to 
be  my  wife?" 

;•  gentle  eyes  never  wavered,  they  were  fixed  half  in, 
wondrr  on  his  but  at  his  question  the  faint  flush  on  her 
chc  i  roper. 

!:  "  a  few  days," 


DORA    THORNE. 

**  You  smu  you  loved  me,"  he  continued. 

"  I  do,"  she  said. 

"  Now.  answer  me  again.  Have  you  ever  loved  or  cared 
for  any  one  else,  as  you  say  you  do  for  me?" 

"  Never,"  was  the  quiefc  reply. 

"  Pray  pardon  the  question — have  you  received  the  at* 
tentions  of  any  lover  before  receiving  mine?" 

"  Certainly  not,"  she  said,  wondering  still  more. 

*'  f  have  all  your  affection,  your  confidence,  your  trust; 
you  have  never  duped  nor  deceived  me;  you  have  been 
open,  truthful,  and  honest  with  me?" 

"  You  fo.get  yourself,  Lionel,"  she  said,  with  gentle 
dignity;  "  you  should  not  use  such  words  to  me." 

"  Answer!"  he  returned.  "  You  have  to  do  with  a 
desperate  man.  Have  you  deceived  me?" 

"  Never,"  she  replied,  "  in  thought,  word,  or  deed." 

"  Merciful  Heaven!"  he  cried.  "  That  one  can  be  so 
fair  and  so  false!" 

There  was  nothing  but  wonder  in  the  face  that  was 
raised  to  his. 

"  Lillian,"  he  said,  "  I  have  loved  you  as  the  ideal  of  ail 
that  was  pure  and  noble  in  woman.  In  you  I  saw  every- 
thing go-jd  and  holy.  May  Heaven  pardon  you  that  ,niy 
faith  has  died  a  violent  death." 

"  I  can  not  understand  you,"  she  said,  slowly.  "  Why 
do  you  speak  to  me  so?" 

"  I  will  use  plainer  words,"  he  replied—"  so  plain  that 
you  can  not  mistake  them.  1,  your  betrothed  husband, 
the  man  you  love  and  trust,  ask  you,  Lillian  Earle,  who 
was  it  you  met  to-night  in  your  father's  grounds?" 

He  saw  the  question  strike  her  as  lightning  sometimes 
strikes  a  fair  tree.  The  color  faded  from  her  lips;  a  cloud 
•same  over  the  clear,  dove-like  eyes;  she  tried  to  answer, 
but  the  words  died  away  in  a  faint  murmur. 

"  Do  you  deny  that  you  were  there?"  he  asked.  "  Re- 
member, I  saw  you,  and  1  saw  him.  Do  you  deny  it?" 

"  No,"  she  replied. 

"  Who  was  it?"  he  cried;  and  his  eyes  flamed  so  angrily 
upon  her  that  she  was  afraid.  "  Tell  me  who  it  was.  1 
will  follow  him  to  the  world's  end.  Tell  me." 

**  I  can  not,  Lionel,"  she  whispered;  "  I  can  not.  For 
pity's  sake,  keep  my  secret!" 

*'  You  need  not  be  afraid,"  he  said,  haughtily,     **  I  shall 


DORA    THOBNE.  21 

Dot  betray  you  to  Lord  Earle.  •  Let  him  find  out  for  him- 
self what  you  are,  as  1  have  done.  1  could  curse  myself 
lor  my  own  trust.  Who  is  he?" 

"  I  can  not  tell  you/'  she  stammered;  and  he  saw  her 
little  white  hands  wrung  together  in  agony.  *'  Oh,  Lionel, 
trust  me — do  not  be  angry  with  me. 

*'  You  can  not  expect  me/'  he  said,  although  he  was 
softened  by  the  sight  of  her  sorrow,  "  to  know  of  such  an. 
action  and  not  to  speak  of  it,  Lillian.  If  you  can  explain 
it,  do  so.  If  the  man  was  an  old  lover  of  yours,  tell  me 
BO;  in  time  1  may  forget  the  deceit,  if  you  *re  frank  with 
me  now.  If  there  be  any  circumstance  that  extenuates  or 
explains  what  you  did,  tell  it  to  me  now." 

"  I  can  not,  she  said;  and  her  fair  face  drooped  sadly 
away  from  him. 

"  That  I  quite  believe/'  he  continued,  bitterly.  "  You 
can  not  and  will  not  You  know  the  alternative,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

The  gentle  eyes  were  raised  to  his  in  mute,  appealing 
sorrow,  out  she  spoke  not. 

"  Tell  me  now/'  he  said,  "  whom  It  was  you  stole  out 
of  the  house  to  meet — why  you  met  him?  Be  frank  with 
me;  and,  if  it  was  but  girlish  nonsense,  in  time  1  may  par- 
don you.  If  you  refuse  to  tell  me,  I  shall  leave  Earles- 
con.rt,  and  never  look  upon  your  face  again." 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  he  heard  a  low 
moan  of  sorrow  come  from  her  white  lips. 

"  Will  you  tell  me,  Lillian?"  he  asked  again- -and  he 
never  forgot  the  deadly  anguish  of  the  face  turned  toward 
him. 

"  I  can  not,"  she  replied;  her  voice  died  away,  and  he 
thought  she  was  falling  from  her  chair. 

"  That  is  your  final  decision;  you  refuse  to  tell  me  what 
as  your  accepted  lover,  I  hare  a  right  to  know?" 

'**  Trust  me,  Lionel!"  she  implored.  "  Try,  for  the 
Jove  you  bear  me,  to  trust  me!" 

"  1  will  never  believe  in  any  one  again,"  he  said.  "  Take 
back  your  promise,  Lillian  Earle;  you  have  broken  a  true 
and  honest  heart,  you  have  blighted  a  whole  life.  Heaven 
knows  what  I  shall  become,  drifted  from  you.  I  cure  not. 
You  have  deceived  me.  Take  back  your  ring.  1  will  say 
good-bye  to  you.  I  shall  not  care  to  look  upon  yo'K  false, 
fair  f.-K'o  again." 


218  DORA    THORITE. 

**  Oh,  iJionel,  wait!"  she  cried.  **  Give  m&  xime — d< 
not  leave  me  so!" 

"  Time  will  make  little  difference/' he  answered;  "  I 
shall  not  leave  the  Hall  until  to-morrow  morning;  you  can 
write  to  me  if  you  wish  me  to  remain." 

He  laid  the  ring  upon  the  table,  refusing  to  notice  the 
trembling,  outstretched  hand.  He  could  not  refrain  from 
looking  back  at  her  as  he  quitted  the  room.  He  saw  the 
gentle  face,  so  full  of  deadly  sorrow,  with  its  white,  quiv. 
ering  lips;  and  yet  he  thought  to  himself,  although  she 
looked  stricken  with  anguish,  there  was  no  guilt  on  the 
•lear,  fair  brow. 

He  turned  back  from  the  door  and  went  straight  to  Loro 
Earle. 

"  I  shall  leave  Earlescourt  to-morrow,"  he  said,  abrupt- 
ly. "  1  must  go,  Lord  Earle;  do  not  press  to  stay." 

**  Come  and  go  as  you  will,  Lionel,"  said  Ronald,  sur- 
prised at  the  brusqueness  of  his  manner;  "  we  are  always 
pleased  to  ^ee  you  and  sorry  to  lose  you.  You  will  return 
soon,  perhaps?" 

**  1  will  write  to  you  in  a  few  days,"  he  replied.  **  I 
must  say  good-bye  to  Lady  Earle." 

She  was  astounded.  Beatrice  and  Lord  Airlie  came  up 
to  him — there  was  a  general  expression  of  surprise  and  re- 
gret. He,  unlike  himself,  was  brusque,  and  almost 
naughty. 

Sir  Harry  and  Lady  Laurence  had  gone  home.  Bea- 
trice, with  a  vague  fear  that  something  had  gone  wrong, 
said  she  was  tired;  Lord  Airlie  said  good-night;  and  in  a 
few  minutes  Lady  Helena  and  her  son  were  left  alone. 

"  What  has  come  over  Lionel?"  asked  Eonald.  "Why, 
mother,  how  mistaken  1  am!  Do  you  know  that  I  quire 
believed  he  was  falling  in  love  with  Lillian?'' 

"  He  did  that  long  ago,"  replied  Lady  Helena,  with  a 
Bmile.  "  Say  nothing  about  it.  Lionel  is  very  proud  and 
impetuous.  I  faucy  he  and  Lillian  have  had  some  little 
dispute.  Matters  of  that  kind  are  best  left  alone — inter* 
ference  always  does  harm.  He  will  come  back  in  a  few 
days;  and  all  be  right  again.  Ronald,  there  is  one  ques- 
tion I  have  buen  wishing  to  ask  you — do  not  be  angry  if  I 
pain  you,  my  son.  Beatrice  will  be  married  soon — do  you 
not  intend  her  -rather  to  be  present  at  the  wedding?" 


DORA    THORNE. 

Lord  Earlw  rose  from  his  chair,  and  began,  as  he  always 
did  JL  time  of  anxiety,  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room, 

**  I  had  forgotten  her  claim,  he  said.  **  I  can  not  tell 
what  to  do,  mother.  It  would  be  a  cruel,  unmerited  slight 
to  pass  hor  over,  but  1  do  not  wish  to  see  her.  I  have 
!ought  a  hard  battle  with  my  feelings,  but  1  can  not  bring 
mj'self  to  see  her." 

"  Yet  you  loved  her  very  much  once/'  said  Lady  Helena. 

14 1  did/'  he  replied,  gently.     "  Poor  Dora!" 

"  It  is  an  awful  thing  to- live  at  enmity  with  any  one/5 
eaid  Lady  Helena — "  but  with  one's  own  wife!  I  can  not 
understand  it,  Ronald." 

"  You  mistake,  mother/'  he  said,  eagerly;  '*  I  am  not 
at  enmity  with  Dora.  She  offended  me — she  hurt  my 
honor — she  pained  me  in  a  way  1  can  never  forget " 

"  You  must  forgive  her  some  day/'  replied  Lady  Earle; 
"  why  not  now?" 

**  No,"  he  said,  sadly.  "  I  know  myself — I  know  what 
I  cati  do  and  what  1  can  not  do.  1  could  take  my  wife  in 
my  arms,  and  kiss  her  face — 1  could  not  live  with  her.  I 
shall  forgive  her,  mother,  when  all  that  is  human  is  dying 
away  from  me.  I  shall  forgive  her  in  the  hour  of  death. 


CHAPTER  XXXV1IL 

LILLIAN  EARLE  was  no  tragedy  queen.  She  never 
talked  about  sacrifice  or  dying,  but  there  was  in  her  calm, 
gentle  nature  a  depth  of  endurance  rarely  equaled.  She 
had  never  owned,  even  to  herself,  how  dearly  she  loved 
Lionel  Dacre — how  completely  every  thought  and  hope  was 
centered  in  him.  Since  she  had  first  learned  to  care  for 
him,  she  bad  never  looked  her  life  in  the  face  and  imagined 
what  it  would  be  without  him. 

It  never  entered  her  mind  to  save  herself  at  the  expense 
of  her  sister;  the  secret  had  been  intrusted  to  her,  and  she 
could  not  conceive  the  idea  of  disclosing  it.  If  the  choice 
hail  been  offered  her  between  death  and  betraying  Beatrice, 
she  would  have  chosen  death,  with  a  simple  consciousness 
that  she  was  but  doing  hor  duty. 

So,  when  Lionel  uttered  those  terrible  words — when  she 
found  that  ho  had  seen  her — she  never  dreamed  of  freeing 
herself  from  blame,  and  telling  the  story  of  her  sister's 


DORA    THOENE. 

fault.  His  words  were  bitterly  cruel;  they  stung  ner  with 
sharp  pain.  She  had  never  seen  contempt  or  scorn  before 
on  that  kindly,  -honest  face;  now,  she  read  both.  Yet, 
what  oould  she  do?  Her  sister's  life  lay  in  her  hands,  and 
she  must  guard  it. 

Therefore,  she  bore  the  cruel  taunts,  and  only  once  whet 
tfle  fear  of  losing  him  tortured  her,  cried  out  for  pity  and 
trust.  But  he  had  no  trust;  he  stabbed  her  gentle  heart 
with  his  fierce  words,  he  seared  her  with  his  hot  anger;  she 
might,  at  the  expense  of  another,  have  explained  all,  aucl 
stood  higher  than  ever  jn  his  esteem,  but  she  would  not 
do  it 

She  was  almost  stunned  by  the  sorrow  that  had  fallen 
npon  her.  She  saw  him,  with  haughty,  erect  bearing, 
quit  the  drawing-room,  and  she  knew  that  unless  Beatrice 
permitted  her  to  tell  the  truth,  she  would  never  see  his 
face  again.  She  went  straight  to  her  sister's  room  and 
waited  for  her. 

The  pale  face  grew  calm  and  still;  her  sister  could  not 
refuse  her  request  when  she  had  told  her  all;  then  she 
would  write  to  Lionel  and  explain.  He  would  not  leave 
Earlescourt;  he  would  only  love  her  the  better  for  her 
steadfast  truth. 

"  Send  Suzette  away,"  she  whispered  to  Beatrice,  when 
she  entered;  "  I  must  see  you  alone  at  once." 

Beatrice  dismissed  her  maid,  and  then  turned  to  her 
Bister. 

"  What  is  it,  Lily?"  she  asked.  "  Your  face  is  deathly 
pale.  What  has  happened?" 

"  Beatrice,"  said  Lillian,  "  will  you  let  me  tell  your  se- 
cret to  Lionel  Dacre?  It  will  be  quite  sacred  with  him." 

"  To  Lionel  Dacre!"  she  cried.  "  No,  a  thousand 
V'mr-s  over!  How  can  you  ask  me,  Lily?  He  is  Lord 
Airlie's  friend  and  could  not  keep  it  from  him.  Why  do 
you  ask  me  such  an  extraordinary  question?" 

"  lie  saw  me  to-night,"  she  replied;  **  he  was  out  in  the 
grounds,  and  saw  me  speaking  to  Hugh  Fernely." 

"Have  you  told  him  anything?"  she  asked;  and  for  a 
moment  Beatrice  looked  despairing. 

"  Not  a  word,"  said  Lily.  "  How  could  1,  when  you 
trusted  me?" 

is  rigVf,"  returned  her  sister,  a  look  of  relief 


DOHA  rzc::  221 

coming  over  hor  face;  "  his  opinion  does  not  matter  much 
What  did  he  say?" 

4>  lie  thought  1  had  been  to  meet  some  ono  Iknew,"  rfc* 
plied  Lillian,  her  face  growing  crimson  with  shame. 

"And  was  dreadfully  shocked,  no  doubt,"  supple- 
mented Beatrice.  "  Well,  never  mind,  darling,  i  am 
very  sorry  it  happened,  but  it  will  not  matter.  I  am  so 
near  freedom  and  happiness,  I  can  not  grieve  over  it.  He 
will  not  surely  tell?  He  is  too  honorable  for  that." 

44  No,"  said  Lillian,  dreamily,  "  he  will  not  tell." 

**  Then  do  not  look  so  scared,  Lily;  nothing  else 
matters." 

44  You  forget  what  he  m.nst  think  of  me,"  said  Lillian. 
44  Knowing  his  upright,  truthful  character,  what  must  he 
think  of  me?" 

That  view  of  the  question  had  not  struck  Beatrice.  She 
looked  grave  and  anxious.  It  was  not  right  for  her  sister 
to  be  misjudged. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  began,  but  Lillian  interrupted 
her,  she  came  close  to  her,  and  lowered  her  pale  face  over 
her  sister's  arm. 

"  Beatrice,"  she  said,  slowly,  4t  you  must  let  me  tell 
him.  He  cares  for  me.  He  loves  me;  1  promised  to  be 
his  wife,  and  I  love  him— just  as  you  do  Lord  Airlie. " 

Under  the  shock  of  those  words  Beatrice  Earle  sat  silent 
and  motionless. 

"  1  luvu  him,"  continued  Lillian.     44 1  did  not  tell  you. 
not  to  be  mentioned  until  you  were  married. 
I  love  him  so  duiily,  Beatrice — and  when  ha  asked  me 
who  it  was  I  had  been  to  meet,  1  could  not  answer  him. 
He  was  very  angry;  he  said  sharp,  cruel  words  to  me,  and 
1  could  ii-it  tell  him  how  false  tney  wen.-.     JJu  will   ! 
Earleaooart;  he  will  never  look  upon  mv  "ace  again—  un« 
:    tell  him  all.     He  has  said  so,  and  he  will  keep  his 
1.     Beatrice,  must  I  lose  my  love?'' 

'•  It  would  be  only  for  a  time,"  she  replied.     44 1  hate 

If  for  being  so  selfish,  but  1  dare  not  trust  L 
Dacre.     He  is  so  impetuous,  so  hu.-ty,  ho  would  betray  me, 
as  surely  as  he  knew  it.     Do  you  not  remember  his  saying 
the  other  day  that  it  was  well  for  him  he  had  no  secreta, 
for  he  could  not  manage  to  keep  them!" 

mid  keep  this,"  pleaded  Lillian — 4t  for  your  sake 
toil    •  :     . " 


BORA    THOBNE. 

"  He  would  not/'  said  Beatrice;  "  and  lam  so  neai 
*3om,  so  near  happiness.     Oh,  Lily,  you  have  saved  w* 
once — save  me  again!    My  darling,  keep  xny  secret  until  i, 
am  married;  then  I  swear  to  you  1  will  tell  Lionel  every 
word  honorably  myself,  and   he   will    love  you  doubly. 
Could  you  do  this-  for  me?" 

"  It  is  not  fair  to  him — he  has  a  right  to  my  confidence 
-—it  is  not  fair  to  myself,  Beatrice." 

"  One  of  us  must  be  sacrificed/'  returned  her  sister. 
'*  If  myself,  the  sacrifice  will  last  my  life — will  cause  my 
death;  if  you,  it  will  last,  at  the  most,  only  three  or  four 
weeks.     1  will  write  to  Lionel  on  my  wedding-day." 
'  Why  trust  him  then  and  not  now?"  asked  Lillian. 

"  Because,  once  married  to  Lord  Airlie,  1  shall  have  no 
fear.  Three  or  four  weeks  of  happiness  are  not  so  much 
to  give  up  for  your  own  sister,  Lily.  1  will  say  no  more. 
I  leave  it  for  you  to  decide. " 

"Nay,  do  not  do  that/'  said  Lillian,  in  great  distress. 
"  I  could  not  clear  myself  at  your  expense  " — a  fact  which 
Beatrice  understood  perfectly  well. 

"Then  let  the  matter  rest/'  said  her  sister;  "some 
flay  I  shall  be  able  to  thank  you  for  all  you  have  done  for 
me — I  can  not  now.  On  my  wedding-day  I  will  tell  Lionel 
Dacre  that  the  girl  he  loves  is  the  truest,  the  noblest,  the 
dearest  in  the  world." 

"  It  is  against  my  better  judgment,"  returned  Lillian. 

"  It  is  against  my  conscience,  judgment,  love,  every- 
thing," added  Beatrice;  "  but  it  will  save  me  from  cruel 
ruin  and  sorrow;  and  it  shall  not  hurt  you,  Lily — it  shall 
bring  you  good,  not  harm.  Now,  try  to  forget  it.  He 
wiii  not  know  how  to  atone  to  you  for  this.  Think  of  your 
happiness  when  he  returns." 

She  drew  the  golden  head  down  upon  her  shoulder,  and, 
with  the  charm  that  never  failed,  sne  talked  and  caressed 
tier  sister  until  she  had  overcome  all  objections. 

But  during  the  long  hours  of  that  night  a  fair  head 
tossed  wearily  to  and  fro  on  its  pillow — a  fair  face  was 
etained  with  bitter  tears.  Lionel  Dacre  lingered,  half  hop- 
ing that  even  at  the  last  she  would  come  and  bid  him  stay 
because  she  wished  to  tell  him  all. 

But  the  last  moment  came,  and  no  messenger  from  Lil- 
lian brought  the  longed-for  words.  He  passed  out  from  the 
HalL  He  co::!:l  not  refrain  from  looking  once  at  the  win- 


DORA    THOBNE.  235 

dow  of  her  room,  bat  the  blind  was  closely  drawn.     He  lit* 
tie  knew  or  dreamed  how  and  why  he  would  return. 

Thursday  morning  dawned  bright  and  beautiful,  as 
though  autumn  wished  to  surpass  the  glories  of  summer. 
Beatrice  had  not  told  Lillian  when  she  was  going  to  meet 
Hugh,  partly  because  she  dreaded  her  sister's  anxiety, 
partly  because  she  did  not  wish  any  one  to  know  how  long 
she  might  be  with  him;  for  Beatrice  anticipated  a  painful 
inti-rview,  although  she  felt  sure  of  triumph  in  the  end. 

Lillian  was  ill  and  unable  to  rise;  unused  to  emotion,  the 
strain  upon  her  mind  had  been  too  great.  When  Lady  Hel- 
ena listened  to  her  maid's  remarks  and  went  up  to  see  her 
granddaughter,  she  forbade  her  to  get  up,  and  Lillian, 
suffering  intensely,  was  only  too  pleased  to  obey. 

The  breakfast-party  was  a  very  small  one.  Lord  Earle 
was  absent;  he  had  gone  to  Holte.  Lady  Helena  hurried 
away  to  sit  with  Lillian.  Lord  Airlie  had  been  smiling  very 
happily  over  a  mysterious  little  packet  that  had  come  by 
post.  He  asked  Beatrice  if  she  would  go  out  with  him — 
he  had  something  to  show  her.  They  went  out  into  the 
park,  intending  to  return  in  time  for  luncheon. 

The  morning  was  bright  and  calm.  Something  of  the 
warmth  and  beauty  of  the  summer  lingered  still,  although 
the  ground  was  strewn  with  fallen  leaves. 

Lord  Airlie  and  Beatrice  sat  at  the  foot  of  the  grand  old 
cedar-tree  whence  they  could  see  the  distant  glimmer  of  the 
deep,  still  lake.  The  birds  sung  around  them,  and  the  sun 
shone  brightly.  On  the  beautiful  face  of  Beatrice  Earle  her 
lover  read  nothing  but  happiness  and  love. 

"  I  have  something  here  for  you,  Beatrice/'  said  Lord 
Airlie,  showing  her  a  little  packet — "  a  surprise.  You 
must  thank  me  by  saying  that  what  it  contains  will  be  more 
precious  to  you  than  anything  else  on  earth." 

She  opened  the  oretty  case;  within  it  there  lay  a  fine 
gold  chain  of  exquisite  fashion  and  a  locket  of  marvelous 
Beauty. 

She  uttered  a  little  cry  of  surprise,  and  raised  the  pres- 
ent in  her  hands. 

"  Now,  thank  me,"  said  Lord  Airlie,  "hi  the  way  1 
asked." 

"  What  it  contains  is  more  precious  to  me  than  anything 
on  earth,"  she  said.  "  Yo»vknow  that.  Hubert;  whv  do 
you  v.'.  ;' •'•  me  repeat  ;tf*' 


THOENB. 

**  Because  I  like  to  hear  it,"  he  answered.  *'  I  like  ta 
see  my  proud  love  looking  humble  for  a  few  minutes;  L 
like  to  know  that  I  have  caged  a  bright,  wild  bird  that  no 
one  else  could  tame." 

"  I  am  not  caged  yet,'*  she  objected. 

."  Beati-ice,"  said  Lord  Airlie,  "  make  me  a  promise. 
Let  me  fasten  this  locket  around  your  neck,  and  tell  me 
that  you  will  not  part  with  it  night  or  day  for  one  rnomeut 
until  our  wedding-day." 

"1  can  easily  promise  that/' she  said.  She  bent  her 
beautiful  head,  and  Lord  Airlie  fastened  the  chain  round 
her  throat. 

He  little  knew  what  he  had  done.  "When  Lord  Airjte 
fastened  the  chain  round  the  neck  of  the  girl  he  loved,  he 
bound  her  to  him  in  life  and  in  death. 

"  It  looks  charming,"  he  said.  "  How  everything  beau- 
tiful becomes  you,  Beatrice!  You  were  born  to  be  a  queen 
--who  am  I  that  I  should  have  won  you?  Tell  me  over 
again — 1  never  grow  tired  of  hearing  it-^do  you  love  me?" 

She  told  him  again,  her  face  glowing  with  happiness. 
He  bent  over  her  and  kissed  the  sweet  face;  he  kissed  the 
little  white  hands  and  the  rings  of  dark  hair  the  wind  blew 
carelessly  near  him. 

"  When  the  leaves  are  green,  and  the  fair  spring  is 
come/' he  said,  "you  will  be  my  wife,  Beatrice — Lady 
Airlie  of  Lynuton.  *  1  love,  my  name  and  title  when  1  re- 
member that  you  will  share  them.  And  you  shall  be  the- 
happiest  Lady  Airlie  that  ever  lived — the  happiest  bride, 
the  happiest  wife  the  sun  ever  shone  upon.  You  will  neve? 
part  with  my  locket,  Beatrice?" 

"  No,"  she  replied;  "  never.     1  will  keep.it  always." 

They  sat  through  the  long  bright  hours  under  the  shade 
of  the  old  cedar- tree,  while  Lillian  lay  with  head  and  hear,* 
aching,  wondering  in  her  gentle  way  why  this  sorrow  should 
havo  fallen  upon  her. 

She  did  not  know,  as  she  lay  like  a  pale  broken  lily,  that 
years  ago  her  father,  in  the  reckless  heyday  of  youth,  had 
•willfully  deceived  his  father,  and  married  against  his  wish 
and  commands;  she  did  not  know  how  that  unhappy  mar- 
riage had  ended  in  pride,  passion,  and  sullen,  jealous  tem- 
per— while  those  who  should  have  foreborne  went  each  their 
own  road — the  proud,  irritated  husband  abroad,  away  from 
every  tie  of  hon  ^  °r.d  duty,  the  jealous,  angry  wife  sec!u4« 


DORA    TIIOKNK.  22i 

ing  herself  in  the  bitterness  of  her  heart — both  neglecting 
the  children  intrusted  to  them.  She  knew  how  one  of  those 
children  had  gone  wrong;  she  knew  the  deceit,  the  misery, 
the  sorrow  that  wrong  had  entailed.  She  was  the  chief  vic- 
tim, yet  the  sin  had  not  been  hers. 

There  was  no  fierce,  rebellious  feelings  in  her  gentle  heart, 
no  angry  warring  with  the  mighty  Hand  that  sends  crosses 
and  blessings  alike.  The  flower  bent  by  the  wind  was  not 
more  pliant.  Where  her  sorrow  and  love  had  cast  her  she 
lay,  silently  enduring  her  suffering,  while  Lionel  traveled 
without  intermission,  wishing  only  to  find  himself  far  away 
from  the  young  girl  he  declared  he  had  ceased  to  love  yet 
could  not  forget. 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

THURSDAY  evening,  and  the  hand  of  the  ormolu  clock 
pointed  to  a  Quarter  to  ten.  Lord  Earle  sat  reading,  Lady 
Helena  had  left  Lillian  asleep,  and  had  taken  up  a  book 
near  him.  Lord  Airlie  had  been  sketching  for  Beatrice  a 
plan  of  a  new  wing  at  Lyunton.  Looking  up  suddenly, 
she  saw  the  time.  At  ten  Hugh  Fernely  would  be  at  the 
shrubbery  gate.  She  had  not  a  moment  to  lose.  Saving 
she  was  feeling  tired,  she  rose  and  went  to  bid  Lord  Earle 
good-night. 

He  remembered  afterward  how  he  had  raised  the  beauti- 
ful face  in  his  hands  and  gazed  at  it  in  loving  admiration, 
whimpering  something  the  while  about  "  Lady  Airlie  of 
Lynnton."  He  remembered  how  she,  so  little  given  to 
caressing,  had  laid  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  clasping 
her  arms  around  his  neck,  kissing  his  face,  ana  calling 
him  "her  own  dear  papa."  He  remembered  the  soft, 
wistful  light  in  her  beautiful  eyes,  the  sweet  voice  that 
lingered  in  his  ears.  Yet  no  warning  came  to  him,  nothing 
told  him  the  fair  child  he  loved  so  dearly  stood  in  the  shadow 
of  deadly  peril. 

If  she  had  known,  how  those  strong  arms  would  have 
been  raised  to  shield  her — how  the  stout,  brave  heart 
would  have  sheltered  her!  As  it  was,  she  left  him  with 

£*38ting  words  on  his  lip.-\  and  he  did  not  even  gaze  after 
or  as  she  quitted  the  room.     If  he  had  only  known  where 
and  how  he  should  sec  that  face  again! 
Beatrice  w?ut  m»  t<>  b«dv  Helena,  who  an  houfc 


218  DORA    THOKNiw 

raising  her  eyes  from  her  book.     Beatrice  bent  down  anfl 
touched  the  kind,  stately  face  with  her  lips. 

"  Good-night,  grandmamma,"  she  said.  "  How  studious 
you  are!" 

"  Good-night — bless  you,  my  child,'*  returned  Lady  Hel- 
ena; and  the  fair  face  turned  from  her  with  a  smile. 

"  You  have  left  me  until  last,"  said  Lord  Airlie;  "  good- 
night, my  Beatrice.  Never  mind  papa — he  is  not  looking 
at  us;  give  me  one  kiss." 

She  raised  her  face  to  his,  and  he  kissed  the  proud,  sweet 
lips. 

He  touched  the  golden  locket 

"  You  will  never  part  with  it,"  he  said;  and  he  smiled 
as  she  answered: 

"  No,  never!" 

Then  she  passed  out  of  his  sight,  and  he  who  would  have 
laid  down  his  life  for  her  saw  her  leave  him  witnout  the 
faintest  suspicion  of  the  shadow  that  hung  over  her. 

The  smile  still  lingered  on  her  as  she  stood  in  her  own 
room.  A  few  hours  more— one  more  trial — she  said  to 
herself;  then  she  would  be  free,  and  might  enjoy  her  hap- 
piness to  its  full  extent.  How  dearly  Hubert  loved  her— 
now  unutterably  happy  she  would  be  when  Hugh  released 
her!  And  he  would — she  never  doubted  it. 

"  I  shall  not  want  you  again,"  she  said  to  her  maid. 
"  And  do  not  call  me  in  the  morning.  1  am  tired." 

The  door  of  Lillian's  room  was  not  closed;  she  went  in. 
The  night-lamp  was  shaded,  and  the  blinds  closely  drawn, 
so  that  the  bright  moonlight  could  not  intrude.  She  went 
gently  to  the  side  of  the  bed  where  her  sister  lay.  Poor, 
gentle,  loving  Lillian!  The  pale,  sad  face,  with  its  wistful, 
wearied  expression,  was  turned  to  the  wall.  There  were 
some  traces  of  tears,  and  even  in  sleep  deep  sighs  passed 
the  quivering  lips.  Sorrow  and  woe  were  impressed  on  the 
fair  face.  Yet,  as  Beatrice  kissed  the  clear,  calm  brow, 
she  would  gladly  have  changed  places  with  her. 
.  "  I  will  soon  make  it  up  to  her,"  she  said,  gazing  long 
and  earnestly  on  the  sleeping  face.  "  In  a  few  weeks  she 
shall  be  happier  than  she  has  ever  been,  I  will  make 
Master  Lionel  go  on  his  knees  to  her." 

She  left  the  room,  and  Lillian  never  knew  who  had  ben* 
so  lovingly  over  her. 

Boatnce  took  from  her  wardrobe  a  thick,  warm  shawl 


DORA    THORNE.  f& 

She  drew  it  over  her  head,  and  so  half  hid  her  it^e.  Then 
she  went  noiselessly  down  the  staircase  that  led  from  her 
suite  of  rooms  to  the  garden. 

How  fair  and  beautiful  the  night  was — not  cold,  although 
it  was  September,  and  the  moon  shining  as  she  had  rarely 
seen  it  shine  before. 

It  seemed  to  sail  triumphantly  in  the  dark-blue  sky.  It 
poured  a  flood  of  silvery  light  on  the  sleeping  flowers  and 
trees. 

She  had  not  lingered  to  look  round  the  pretty  dressing- 
room  as  she  left  it.  Her  eyes  had  not  dwelt  on  the  luxuri- 
ous chamber  and  the  white  bed,  wherein  she  ought  to  have 
been  sleeping,  but,  now  that  she  stood  outside  the  Hall,  she 
looked  up  at  the  windows  with  a  sense  of  loneliness  and 
fear.  There  was  a  light  in  Lady  Helena's  room  and  one 
in  Lord  Airlie's.  She  shrunk  back.  What  would  he  think 
if  he  saw  her  now? 

Deeply  she  felt  the  humiliation  of  leaving  her  father's 
house  at  that  hour  of  the  night;  she  felt  the  whole  shame 
of  what  she  was  going  to  do;  but  the  thought  of  Lord  Air- 
lie  nerved  her.  Let  this  one  night  pass,  and  a  life-time  of 
happiness  lay  before  her. 

The  night  wind  moaned  fitfully  among  the  trees;  the 
branches  of  the  tall  lime-trees  swayed  over  her  head;  the 
fallen  leaves  twirled  round  her  feet.  She  crossed  the  gar- 
dens; the  moon  cast  strange  shadows  upon  the  broad  paths. 
At  length  she  saw  the  shrubbery  gate,  and,  by  it,  erect  and 
motionless,  gazing  on  the  bending  trees  in  the  park,  was 
Hugh  Pernely.  He  did  not  hear  her  light  footsteps — the 
wind  among  the  lime-trees  drowned  them.  She  went  up 
to  him  and  touched  bis  arm  gently. 

"  Hugh,"  she  said,  "  I  am  here." 

Before  she  could  prevent  him,  he  was  kneeling  at  her  feet 
fie  had  clasped  her  hands  in  his  own,  and  was  covering 
them  with  hot  kisses  and  burning  tears. 

"  My  darling/'  he  said,  "  my  own  Beatrice,  I  knew  yon 
would  come!" 

I  Fe  rose  then,  and,  before  she  could  stop  him,  he  took  the 
shawl  from  her  head  and  raised  the  beautiful  face  so  that 
the  moonlight  fell  clearly  upon  it. 

"  1  have  hungered  and  thirsted,"  he  said,  **  for  another 
look  at  that  face.  I  shall  see  it  always  now—  r  will 


328  DORA    THORNS. 

never  leave  me  more.  Look  at  me,  Beatrice,"  he  criedj 
*'  let  me  see  those  dark  eyes  again/' 

Bat  the  glance  she  gave  him  had  nothing  in  it  but  cold- 
ness and  dread.  In  the  excitement  of  his  joy  he  did  not 
notice  it. 

"  Words  are  so  weak,"  he  said,  "  I  can  not  tell  you  how 
I  have  longed  for  this  hour.  1  have  gone  over  it  in  fancy  a 
thousand  times;  yet  no  dream  was  ever  so  bright  and  sweet 
as  this  reality.  No  man  in  the  wide  world  ever  loved  any 
one  as  I  love  you,  Beatrice." 

She  could  not  resist  the  passionate  torrent  of  words — they 
must  have  touched  the  heart  of  one  less  proud,  She  stood 
perfectly  still,  while  the  calm  night  seemed  to  thrill  with 
the  eloquent  voice  of  the  speaker. 

"  Speak  to  me, "  he  sairl,  at  length.  "  How  coldly  you 
listen!  Beatrice,  there  is  no  love,  no  joy  in  your  face. 
Tell  me  you  are  pleased  to  see  me — tell  me  you  have  remem- 
bered me.  Say  anything — let  me  hear  your  voice." 

"  Hugh,"  she  answered,  gently,  drawing  her  hands  from 
his  strong  grasp,  "  this  is  all  a  mistake.  You  have  not 
given  me  time  to  speak.  I  am  pleased  to  see  you  well  and 
safe.  I  am  pleased  that  you  have  escaped  the  dangers  of 
the  deep;  but  I  can  not  say  more.  1 — I  do  not  love  you  as 
you  love  me. " 

His  hands  dropped  nervously,  and  he  turned  his  des- 
pairing face  from  her. 

"  You  must  be  reasonable,"  she  continued,  in  her  mu- 
sical, pitiless  voice.  "  Hugh,  I  was  only  a  dreaming,  inno- 
cent, ignorant  child  whenl  first  met  you.  It  was  not  love 
I  thought  of.  You  talked  to  me  as  no  one  else  ever  had 
— it  was  like  reading  a  strange,  wonderful  story;  my  head 
was  filled  with  romance,  my  heart  was  not  filled  with  love." 

'*  But,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  "you  promised  to  be  my  wife." 

**  I  remember,"  she  acknowledged.  "  I  do  not  deny  it; 
but,  Hugh,  1  did  not  know  what  I  was  saying.  1  spoke 
without  thought.  I  no  more  realized  what  the  words 
meant  than  I  can  understand  now  what  the  wind  is  say- 
ing." 

A  long,  low  moan  came  from  his  lips;  the  awful  despair 
in  his  face  startled  her, 

14  So  1  have  returned  for  this!"  he  cried.  **  I  have 
braved  oo.told  perils;  1  have  escaped  the  dangers  of  the 


DORA    THOKNE.  229 

seas,  the  death  that  larks  in  heaving  waters,  to  be  slain  by 
zruel  words  from  the  girl  1  loved  and  trusted." 

He  turned  from  her,  unable  to  check  the  bitter  sob  that 
rose  to  his  lips. 

"  ILn.sii,  Hugh,"  she  said,  gently,  "  you  grieve  me." 

"  Do  you  think  of  my  grief?"  he  cried.  "  I  came  here 
to-night,  with  my  heart  on  fire  with  love,  my  brain  dizzy 
with  happiness.  You  have  killed  me,  Beatrice  Earle,  as 
surely  as  ever  man  was  slain. " 

Far  off,  among  the  trees,  she  saw  the  glimmer  of  the 
light  in  Lord  AirTie's  room.  It  struck  her  with  a  sensation 
of  fear,  as  though  he  were  watching  her. 

"Let  us  walk  on,"  she  said;  "I  do  not  like  standing 
here." 

They  went  through  the  shrubbery,  through  tho  broad, 
green  glades  of  the  park,  where  the  dew-drops  shone  upon 
fern  leaves  and  thick  grass,  past  the  long  avenue  of  chest- 
nut-trees, where  the  wind  moaned  like  a  human  being  in 
deadly  pain;  on  to  the  shore  of  the  deep,  calm  lake,  where 
the  green  reeds  bent  and  swayed  and  the  moonlight  shono 
on  the  rippling  waters.  All  this  while  Hugh  had  not 
spoken  a  word,  but  had  walked  in  silence  by  her  side.  Ho 
turned  to  her  at  length,  and  she  heard  the  rising  passion 
in  his  voice, 

44  You  promised  me,"  he  said,  "  and  you  must  keep  your 
promise.  You  said  you  would  be  my  wife.  No  other  man 
must  dare  to  speak  to  you  of  love,  he  cried,  grasping  her 
arm.  "  In  the  sight  of  Heaven  you  are  mine,  Beatrice 
Earle." 

"  1  am  not,"  she  answered,  proudly;  "  and  I  never  will 
be;  no  man  would,  or  could,  take  advantage  of  a  promise 
obtained  from  a  willful,  foolish  child." 

"I  will  appeal  to  Lord  Earle,"  he  said;  "  I  will  lay  my 
claim  before  him." 

"  You  may  do  so,"  she  replied;  **  and,  althongh  he  wih 
never  look  upon  me  again,  he  will  protect  ine  from  you." 

She  saw  the  angry  light  flame  in  his  eyes;  she  heard  his 
breath  come  in  quick,  short  gasps,  and  the  danger  of  quar- 
reling with  him  struck  her.  She  laid  her  hand  upon  hia 
arui,  and  he  trembled  at  the  gentle  touch. 

"Hugh,"  she  said,  "do  not  be  angry.  You  are  a 
brave  man;  1  know  that  in  all  your  life  you  never  shrunk 
fiom  danger  or  feared  peril.  The  bravo  are  alw*«8  gener- 


230  DOBA    THOBNE. 

ous,  always  noble;  think  of  what  I  am  going  to  say.  Suppose 
that,  by  the  exercise  of  any  power,  you  could  really  compel 
me  to  be  your  wife,  what  would  it  benefit  you?  I  should 
not  love  you,  1  tell  you  candidly.  I  should  detest  you  for 
spoiling  my  life — I  would  never  see  you.  What  would  you 
gain  by  forcing  me  to  keep  my  promise?" 

He  made  no  reply.  The  wind  bent  the  reeds,  and  the 
water  came  up  the  bank  with  a  long,  low  wash. 

"  I  appeal  to  your  generosity,"  she  said — "  your  nobility 
of  character.  Eelease  me  from  a  promise  I  made  in  igno- 
rance; I  appeal  to  your  very  love  for  me— release  me,  that 
I  may  be  happy.  Those  who  love  truly,"  she  continued, 
receiving  no  reply,  "  never  love  selfishly.  If  I  cared  for 
any  one  as  you  do  for  me,  I  should  consider  my  own  hap- 
piness last  of  all.  If  you  love  me,  release  me,  Hugh.  I 
can  never  be  happy  with  you." 

"  Why  not?"  he  asked,  tightening  his  grasp  upon  her 
arm. 

**  Not  from  mercenary  motives,"  she  replied,  earnestly; 
"  not  because  my  father  is  wealthy,  my  home  magnificent, 
and  you  belong  to  another  grade  of  society — not  for  that, 
but  because  I  do  not  love  you.  I  never  did  love  you  as  a 
girl  should  love  the  man  she  means  to  marry." 

"  You  are  very  candid,"  said  he,  bitterly;  "  pray,  is  there 
any  one  else  you  love  in  this  way?" 

"  That  is  beside  the  question,"  she  replied,  haughtily; 
"  1  am  speaking  of  you  and  myself.  Hugh,  if  you  will  give 
me  my  freedom — if  you  will  agree  to  forget  the  foolish 
promise  of  a  foolish  child — I  will  respect  and  esteem  yo'». 
while  I  live;  I  shall  bless  you  every  day;  your  name  will 
be  a  sacred  one  enshrined  in  my  heart,  your  memory  will 
be  a  source  of  pleasure  to  me.  You  shall  be  my  friend, 
Hugh,  and  I  will  be  a  true  friend  to  you. " 

"  Beatrice,"  he  cried,  "  do  not  tempt  me!" 

"  Yes,  be  tempted,"  she  said;  "  let  me  urge  you  to  be 
generous,  to  be  noble!  See,  Hugh,  I  have  never  prayed  to 
any  man — I  pray  to  you ;  1  would  kneel  "here  at  your  feet 
and  beseech  you  to  release  me  from  a  promise  1  never 
meant  to  give." 

Her  words  touched  him.  She  saw  the  softened  look  upon 
his  face,  the  flaming  anger  die  out  of  his  eyes. 

l*  Hii<ih,"  she  said,  softly,  "  I,  Beatrice  Earle,  pray  you. 


DORA    THORNE.  231 

by  the  love  you  bear  me,  to  release  me  from  all  claim,  aiid 
leave  me  in  peace. 

"  Let  me  think,"  he  replied;  "  give  me  a  few  minutes; 
no  man  could  part  so  hastily  with  the  dearest  treasure 
he  has.  Let  me  think  what  I  lose  in  giving  yon  up." 


CHAPTER  XL. 

THEY  stood  for  some  time  in  perfect  silence;  they  had 
wandered  down  to  the  very  edge  of  the  lake.  The  water 
rippled  in  the  moonlight,  and  while  Hugh  Fernely  thought 
Beatrice  looked  into  the  clear  depths.  How  near  she  was 
to  her  triumph!  A  few  miuutes  more  and  he  would 
turn  to  her  and  tell  her  she  was  free.  His  face  was 
growing  calm  and  gentle.  She  would  dismiss  him  with 
grateful  thanks;  she  would  hasten  home.  How  calm 
would  be  that  night's  sleep!  When  she  saw  Lord  Airlie 
in  the  morning,  all  her  sorrow  and  shame  would  have 
passed  by.  Her  heart  beat  high  as  she  thought  of  this. 

44 1  think  it  must  be  so/'  said  Hugh  Fernely,  at  last;  4t  1 
think  1  must  give  you  up,  Beatrice.  I  could  not  bear  to 
make  you  miserable.  Look  up,  my  darling;  let  me  see 
your  face  once  more  before  1  say  good-bye. " 

She  stood  before  him,  and  the  thick  dark  shawl  fell  from 
her  shoulders  upon  the  grass;  she  did  not  miss  it  in  the 
blinking  joy  that  had  fallen  upon  her.  Hugh  Fernely 'a 
gaze  lingered  upon  the  peerless  features. 

"  I  can  give  you  up,"  he  said,  gently;  "  for  your  own 
happiness,  but  not  to  another,  Beatrice.  Tell  me  that  you 
have  not  learned  to  love  another  since  I  left  you/' 

made  no  reply — not  to  have  saved  her  life  a  thousand 
times  would  she  have  denied  her  love  for  Lord  Airlie. 
His  kiss  was  still  warm  on  her  lips — those  same  lips  should 
nerer  deny  him. 

44  You  do  not  speak,"  he  added,  gloomily.  "  By  Heaven, 

Beatrice,  if  I  thought  you  had  learned  to  love  another  man 

— if  I  thought  you  wanted  to  be  free  from  me  to  marry  an- 

othiir — I  should  go  mad — mad  with  jealous  rage!    Is  it  so? 

ver  me.'* 

•  saw  a  lurid  light  in  his  eyes,  and  shrunk  from  him, 
ightened  his  grasp  upon  her  arm. 

*4  Answer  me.     he  cried,  hoarsely.     '*  1  will  know." 


332  DORA    THORNE. 

Not  far  from  her  slept  the  lover  who  would  have  shielded 
her  with  his  strong  arm — the  lover  to  whom  every  hair  upon 
her  dear  head  was  more  precious  than  gold  or  jewels.  Not 
fur  from  her  slept  the  kind,  loving  father,  who  was  prouder 
and  fonder  of  her  than  of  any  one  on  earth.  Gaspar 
Laurence,  who  would  have  died  for  her,  lay  at  that  moment 
not  far  away,  awake  and  thinking  of  her.  Yet  in  the  hour 
of  her  deadly  peril,  when  she  stood  on  the  shore  of  the  deep 
lake,  in  the  fierce  grasp  of  a  half-maddened  man,  there 
was  no  one  near  to  help  her  or  raise  a  hand  in  her  defense,. 
But  she  was  no  coward,  and  all  the  high  spirit  of  her  race 
rose  within  her. 

"  Loosen  your  grasp,  Hugh,"  she  said,  calmly;  "  you 
pain  me." 

"  Answer  me!"  he  cried.  "  Where  is  the  ring  I  gave 
you?" 

He  seized  both  her  hands  and  looked  at  them;  they  were 
firm  and  cool — they  did  not  tremble.  As  his  fierce,  angry 
eyes  glanced  over  them,  not  a  feature  of  her  beautiful 
face  quivered. 

"  Where  is  my  ring?"  he  asked.  "  Answer  me,  Bea- 
trice." 

"  I  have  not  worn  it  lately,"  she  replied.  "  Hugh,  you 
forget  yourself.  Gentlemen  do  not  speak  and  act  in  this 
way. ' ' 

"  1  believe  1  am  going  mad,"  he  said,  gloomily.  "  I 
could  relinquish  my  claim  to  you,  Beatrice,  for  your  own 
sake,  but  I  will  never  give  you  up  to  be  the  wife  of  any 
other  man.  Tell  me  it  is  not  so.  Tell  me  you  have  not 
been  so  doubly  false  as  to  love  another,  and  1  will  try  to 
do  all  you  wish." 

"'  Am  I  to  live  all  my  life  unloved  and  unmarried?"  she 
answered,  controlling  her  angry  indignation  by  a  strong 
effort,  "  because  when  I  was  a  lonely  and  neglected  girl,  I 
fell  into  your  power?  I  do  not  ask  such  a  sacrifice  from 
you.  I  hope  you  will  love  and  marry,  and  be  happy." 

"  1  shall  not  care,"  he  said,  "  what  happens  after  I  am 
gone — it  will  not  hurt  my  jealous,  angry  heart  then,  Bea- 
trice; but  I  should  net  like  to  think  taat  while  you  were 
my  promised  wife  and  I  was  giving  you  my  every  thought, 
you  were  loving  some  one  else.  I  should  like  to  believe 
you  were  true  to  me  while  you  were  my  own." 

She  made  no  answer,  fearing  to  irritate  him  if  she  tolfl 


DOttA    -BHORNE.  233 

the  truth,  and  scorning  to  deny  the  love  that  was  the 
crowning  blessing  of  her  life.  His  anger  grew  in  her 
silence.  Again  the  dark  flush  arose  in  his  face,  and  his 
eyes  flamed  with  fierce  light. 

Suddenly  he  caught  sight  of  the  gold  locket  she  wore 
round  her  neck,  fastened  by  the  slender  chain. 

"  What  is  this  thing  you  wear?"  he  asked,  quickly. 
"  You  threw  aside  my  ring.  What  is  this?  Whose  por= 
trait  have  you  there?  Let  me  see  it." 

"  You  forget  yourself  again,"  she  said,  drawing  herself 
haughtily  away.  "  I  have  no  account  to  render  to  you  of 
my  friends." 

**  1  will  see  who  is  there!"  he  cried,  beside  himself  with 
angry  rage.  "  Perhaps  I  shall,  know  then  why  you  wish 
to  be  freed  from  me.  Whose  face  is  lying  near  you* 
heart?  Let  me  see.  If  it  is  that  of  any  one  who  has  out- 
witted me,  I  will  throw  it  into  the  depths  of  the  lake." 

"  Yon  shall  not  see  it,"  she  said,  raising  her  hand,  and 
clasping  the  little  locket  tightly.  **  I  am  not  afraid,  Hugh 
Fernely.  You  will  never  use  violence  to  me." 

But  the  hot  anger  leaped  up  in  his  heart;  he  was  mad 
with  cruel  jealousy  and  rage,  and  tried  to  snatch  thy 
locket  from  her.  She  defended  it,  holding  it  tightly 
clasped  in  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  she  tried  to  free 
herself  from  his  grasp. 

It  will  never  be  knowu  how  that  fatal  accident  happened. 
Men  will  never  know  whether  the  hapless  girl  fell,  or 
whether  Hugh  Fernely,  in  his  mad  rage,  flung  her  int>  the 
lake.  There  was  a  startled  scream  that  rang  through  the 
clear  air,  a  heavy  fall,  a  splash  amid  the  waters  of  the  lakel 
There  was  one  awful,  despairing  glance  from  a  nale,  hor- 
ror-stricken face,  and  then  the  waters  closed,  tne  ripples 
spread  over  the  broad  surface,  and  the  sleeping  lilies  trem- 
bled for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  lay  still  again !  Once, 
and  once  only,  a  woman's  white  hand,  thrown  up,  as  it 
were,  in  agonizing  supplication,  cleft  the  dark  water,  and 
then  all  was  over;  the  wind  blew  the  ripples  more  strongly; 
tlu-y  washed  upon  the  grass,  and  the  stir  of  the  deep 
waters  subsided! 

Hugh  Fernely  did  not  plunge  in  to  the  lake  after  Beatrice 
—it  was  too  late  to  save  her;  still,  he  might  have  tried. 
The  cry  that  rang  through  the  sleeping  woods  seemed  to 
!>;inily/p  him— he  stood  like  one  bereft  of  reason,  sense, 


234  DOHA    THORNE. 

and  life.  Pernaps  the  very  suddenness  of  tne  event  oveiv 
powered  him.  Heaven  only  knows  what  passed  in  his  dull, 
crazed  mind  while  the  girl  he  loved  sunk  without  help." 
Was  it  that  he  would  not  save  her  for  another — that  iu  hi& 
cruel  love  he  preferred  to  know  her  dead,  beneath  the  cold 
waters,  rather  than  the  living,  happy  wife  of  another  man? 
Or  was  it  that  in  the  sudden  shock  and  terror  he  never 
thought  of  trying  to  save  her? 

He  stood  for  hours — it  seemed  to  him  as  years — watch- 
ing the  spot  where  the  pale,  agonized  face  had  vanished— 
watching  the  eddying  ripples  and  the  green  reeds.  Yet  he 
never  sought  to  save  her — never  plunged  into  the  deep 
waters  whence  he  might  have  rescued  her  had  he  wished. 
He  never  moved.  He  felt  no  fatigue.  The  first  thing 
that  roused  him  was  a  gleam  of  gray  light  in  the  eastern 
sky,  and  the  sweet,  faint  song  of  a  little  bird. 

Then  he  saw  that  the  day  had  broken.  He  said  to  him- 
self, with  a  wild,  horrible  laugh,  that  he  had  watched  all 
night  by  her  grave. 

He  turned  and  fled.  One  meeting  him,  with  fierce,  wild 
eyes  full  of  the  fire  of  madness,  with  pale,  haggard  face 
full  of  despair,  would  have  shunned  him.  He  fled  through 
the  green  park,  out  on  the  high-road,  away  through  the 
deep  woods — he  knew  not  whither — never  looking  back; 
crying  out  at  times,  with  a  hollow,  awful  voice  that  he 
had  been  all  night  by  her  grave;  falling  at  times  on  his 
face  with  wild,  woful  weeping,  praying  the  heavens  to  fall 
upon  him  and  hide  him  forever  from  his  fellow-men. 

He  crept  into  a  field  where  the  hedge-rows  were  bright 
with  autumn's  tints.  He  threw  himself  down,  and  tried 
to  close  his  hot,  dazed  eyes,  but  the  sky  above  him  looked 
blood-red,  the  air  seemed  filled  with  flames.  Turn  where 
he  would,  the  pale,  despairing  face  that  had  looked  up  to 
him  as  the  waters  opened  was  before  him.  He  arose  with 
a  great  cry,  and  wandered  on.  He  came  to  a  little  cot- 
tage, where  rosy  children  were  at  play,  talking  and  laugh- 
ing in  the  bright  sunshine*. 

Great  Heaven!  How  long  was  it  since  the  dead  girl,  now 
Bleeping  under  the  deep  waters,  was  happy  and  bright  as 
they? 

He  fled  again.  This  time  the  piercing  cry  filled  his  ears; 
it  seemed  to  deaden  his  brain.  He  fell  in  the  field  near  the 
cottage.  Hoars  afterward  the  children  out  at.  play  found 


UORA    THORNE.  * 

him  lying  in  the  dank  grass  that  fringed  the  pond  under 
the  alder-trees. 

******* 

The  first  faint  flush  of  dawn,  a  rosy  light,  broke  in  the 
eastern  sky,  a  tremulous,  golden  shimmer  was  on  the  lake 
as  the  sunbeams  touched  it.  The  forest  birds  awoke  and 
began  to  sing;  they  flew  from  branch  to  branch;  the  flow 
ars  began  to  open  their  "  dewy  eyes,"  the  stately  swans 
came  out  upon  the  lake,  bending  their  arched  necks,  sail- 
ing round  the  water-lilies  and  the  green  sedges. 

The  sun  shone  out  at  length  in  his  majesty,  warming 
and  brightening  the  fair  face  of  nature — it  was  full  and 
perfect  day.  The  gardeners  came  through  the  park  to 
commence  their  work;  the  cows  out  in  the  pasture-land 
stood  to  be  milked,  the  busy  world  began  to  rouse  itself; 
but  the  fatal  secret  hidden  beneath  the  cold,  dark  water  re* 
mained  still  untold. 


CHAPTER  XLL 

THE  sun  shone  bright  and  warm  in  the  breakfast-room  at 
Earlescourt  The  rays  fell  upon  the  calm,  stately  face  of 
Lady  Helena,  upon  the  grave  countenance  of  her  son,  upon 
the  bright,  handsome  features  of  Lord  Airlie.  They 
sparkled  on  the  delicate  silver,  and  showed  off  the  pretty 
china  to  perfection.  The  breakfast  was  upon  ihe  table, 
but  the  three  occupants  of  the  room  had  been  waiting. 
Lady  Helena  took  her  seat 

"  It  seems  strange,"  she  said  to  Lord  Earle,  "  to  break- 
fast without  either  of  the  girls.  I  would  not  allow  Lillian 
to  rise;  and  from  some  caprice  Beatrice  forbade  her  maid 
to  call  her,  saying  she  was  tired." 

Lord  Earle  made  some  laughing  reply,  but  Lady  Hel"im 
was  not  quite  pleased.  Punctuality  with  her  had  always 
been  a  favorite  virtue.  In  case  of  real  illness  allowance 
was  of  course  to  be  made;  but  she  herself  had  never  con- 
suit-red  a  little  extra  fatigue  as  sufficient  reason  for  absent- 
ing herself  from  table. 

The  two  gentlemen  talked  gayly  during  breakfast  Lord 
Karli'  asked  Hubert  if  he  would  go  with  him  to  Holte,  and 
Lord  Airlie  said  lie  had  promised  to  drive  Beatrice  to  Lang* 
ton  Priorv. 


236  DORA    THORITE. 

Hearing  that,  Lady  Helena  thought  it  time  to  send  sonw 
3ittle  warning  to  her  grandchild.  She  rang  for  Suzette, 
the  maid  who  waited  upon  Beatrice,  and  told  her  to  call 
her  young  mistress. 

She  stood  at  her  writing-table,  arranging  some  letters, 
when  the  maid  returned.  Lady  Helena  looked  at  her  in 
utter  wonder — the  girl's  face  was  pale  and  scared. 

"  My  lady,"  she  said,  "  will  you  please  come  here?  Yo> 
are  wanted  very  particularly. " 

Lady  Helena,  without  speaking  to  either  of  the  gentle 
men,  went  to  the  door  where  the  girl  stood. 

"  What  is  it,  Susette?"  she  asked.  4k  What  is  the  mat- 
ter?" 

"  For  mercy's  sake,  my  lady,"  replied  the  maid,  *'  come 
upstairs.  1 — I  can  not  find  Miss  Beatrice — she  is  not  in  her 
room;"  and  the  girl  trembled  violently  or  Lady  Helena 
would  have  smiled  at  her  terror. 

*'  She  is  probably  with  Miss  Lillian,"  she  said.  "  Why 
make  such  a  mystery,  Suzette?" 

"  She  is  not  there,  my  lady;  I  can  not  find  her,"  was 
the  answer. 

"  She  may  have  gone  out  into  the  garden  or  tha 
grounds,"  said  Lady  Helena. 

"  My  lady,"  Suzette  whispered,  and  her  frightened  face 
grew  deathly  pale,  "  her  bed  has  not  been  slept  in;  noth- 
ing is  touched  in  her  room;  she  has  not  been  in  it  aD 
night." 

A  shock  of  unutterable  dread  seized  Lady  Earle;  a  sharp 
spasm  seemed  to  dart  through  her  heart. 

"  There  must  be  some  mistake,"  she  said,  gently;  "  I 
will  go  upstairs  with  you." 

The  rooms  were  without  occupant;  no  disarray  of  jewels, 
flowers,  or  dresses,  no  little  slippers;  no  single  trace  oj  . 
Beatrice's  presence  was  there. 

The  pretty  white  bed  was  untouched — no  one  had  slept 
in  it;  the  blinds  were  drawn,  and  the  sunlight  struggled  tc 
enter  the  room.  Lady  Helena  walked  mechanically  to  the 
window,  and  drew  aside  the  lace  curtains;  then  she  looked 
round. 

"  She  has  not  slept  here,"  she  said;  "  she  must  have 
slept  with  Miss  Lillian.  You  have  frightened  me,  Suz- 
ette; I  will  go  and  see  myself." 

Ladv  Helena  went  thro  ugh  the  pretty  sitting-room,  where 


DORA    THORNB.  237 

the  books  Beatrice  had  been  reading  lay  upon  the  table,  on 
to  Lillian's  chamber. 

The  youn.£  girl  was  awake,  looking  pale  and  languid,  yet 
better  than  she  had  looked  the  night  oefore.  Lady  Earle 
controlled  all  emotion,  and  went  quietly  to  her. 

"  Have  you  seen  Beatrice  this  morning?"  she  asked.  "  I 
want  her." 

"  Xo,"  replied  Lillian;  "  I  have  not  seen  her  since  jest 
before  dinner  last  evening." 

**  She  did  not  sleep  with  you,  then?"  said  Lady  Earle.. 

"  Xo,  she  did  not  sleep  here,"  responded  the  young  girl. 

Lady  Helena  kissed  Lillian's  face,  and  quitted  the  room; 
a  deadly,  horrible  fear  was  turning  her  faint  and  cold. 
From  the  suite  of  rooms  Lord  Earle  had  prepared  and  ar- 
ranged for  his  daughters  a  staircase  ran  which  led  into  the 
garden.  He  had  thought  at  the  time  how  pleasant  it  would 
be  for  them.  As  Lady  Helena  entered,  Suzette  stood  upon 
the  stairs  with  a  bow  of  pink  ribbon  in  her  hand. 

"  My  lady,"  she  said,  "  I  fastened  the  outer  door  of  the 
staircase  last  night  myself.  I  locked  it,  and  shot  the  bolts. 
It  is  unfastened  now,  and  1  have  found  this  lying  by  it, 
Miss  Earle  wore  it  last  evening  on  her  dress." 

"  Something  terrible  must  have  happened,"  exclaimed 
Lady  Helena.  "  Suzette,  ask  Lord  Earle  to  come  to  me. 
Do  not  say  a  word  to  any  one." 

He  stood  by  her  side  in  a  few  minutes,  looking  in  mute 
wonder  at  her  pale,  scared  face. 

"  Ronald,"  she  said,  "  Beatrice  has  not  slept  in  her 
room  all  night.  We  can  not  fiod  her." 

He  smiled  at  first,  thinking,  as  she  had  done,  that  there 
be  some  mistake,  and  that  his  mother  was  fanciful 
and  nervous;  but,  when  Lady  Helena,  in  quick,  hurried 
words,  told  him  of  the  unfastened  door  and  the  ribbon,  his 
face  grew  serious.  He  took  the  ribbon  from  the  maid's 
hand — it  seemed  a  living  part  of  his  daughter.  He  re- 
membered that  he  had  seen  it  the  night  before  on  her  dress, 
when  lie  hud  held  up  the  beautiful  face  to  kiss  it  He  had 
touched  that  same  ribbon  with  his  face. 

"  She  may  have  gone  out  into  the  grounds,  and  have  been 
taken  ill,"  he  said.  "  Do  not  frighten  Airlie,  mother;  1 
will  look  round  myself." 

Hi-  went  through  every  room  of  the  house  one  by  one, 
but  there  was  no  trace  of  her.  Still  Lord  Earle  had  n* 


238  DORA    THORNE. 

fear;  it  seemed  so  utterly  impossible  that  any  harm  could 
have  happened  to  her. 

Then  he  went  out  into  the  grounds,  half  expecting  the 
oeautiful  face  to  smile  upon  him  from  under  the  shade  of 
her  favorite  trees.  He  called  aloud,  "  Beatrice!'*  The 
wind  rustled  through  the  trees,  the  birds  sung,  bat  there 
came  no  answer  to  his  cry.  Neither  in  the  grounds  nor  in 
the  garden  could  he  discover  any  trace  of  her.  He  re« 
turned  to  Lady  Helena,  a  vague  fear  coming  over  him. 

"  I  can  not  find  her/'  he  said.  "  Mother,  I  do  not  un- 
derstand this.  She  can  not  have  left  us.  She  was  not  un- 
happy— my  beautiful  child." 

There  was  no  slip  of  paper,  no  letter,  no  clew  to  her 
absence.  Mother  and  sou  looked  blankly  at  each  other. 

"  Ronald,"  she  cried,  "  where  is  she?  Where  is  the 
poor  child?" 

He  tried  to  comfort  her,  but  fear  was  rapidly  mastering 
him. 

*'  Let  us  see  if  Airlie  can  suggest  anything,"  he  said. 

They  went  down  to  the  breakfast-room,  where  Lord  Air- 
lie  still  waited  for  the  young  girl  he  was  never  more  to 
meet  alive.  He  turned  round  with  a  smile,  and  asked  if 
Beatrice  were  coming.  The  smile  died  from  his  lips  when 
he  saw  the  pale,  anxious  faces  of  mother  arid  son. 

"  Hubert,"  said  Lord  Earle,  "  we  are  alarmed— let  us 
hope  without  cause.  Beatrice  can  not  be  found.  My 
mother  is  frightened."  Lady  Helena  had  sunk,  pale  and 
trembling,  upon  a  couch.  Lord  Airlie  looked  bewildered. 
Lord  Earle  told  him  briefly  how  they  had  missed  her,  and 
what  had  been  done. 

"She  must  be  trying  to  frighten  us,"  he  said;  "she 
must  have  hidden  herself.  There  can  not  be  anything 
wrong."  Even  as  he  spoke  he  felt  how  impossible  it  was 
that  his  dignified  Beatrice  should  have  done  anything 
wrong. 

He  could  throw  no  light  upon  the  subject.  He  had  not 
seen  her  since  he  had  kissed  her  when  bidding  her  good- 
night. Her  maid  was  the  last  person  to  whom  she  had 
spoken.  Suzette  had  left  her  in  her  own  room,  and  since 
then  nothing  had  been  seen  or  heard  of  Beatrice  Earle. 

Father  and  lover  went  out  together.  Lord  Airlie  sug- 
ested that  she  had  perhaps  gone  out  into  the  gardens  and 
met  with  some  accident  there.  They  went  carefully 


DORA    THOBKE. 

•irer  every  part — there  was  no  trace  of  Beatrice.  They 
(rent  through  the  shrubbery  out  into  the  park,  where  the 
juiet  lake  shone  amid  the  green  trees. 

Suddenly,  like  the  thrust  of  a  sharp  sword,  the  remem- 
brance of  the  morning  spent  upon  the  water  came  to  Lord 
Airlie.  He  called  to  mind  Beatrice's  fear— the  cold  blind- 
3er  that  seized  her  when  she  declared  that  her  own  face 
with  a  mocking  smile  was  looking  up  at  her  from  the 
lepths  of  the  water. 

He  walked  hurriedly  toward  the  lake.  It  was  calm  and 
clear — the  tall  trees  and  green  sedges  swaying  in  the  wind, 
the  white  lilies  rising  and  falling  with  the  ripples.  The 
blue  sky  and  .green  trees  were  reflected  in  the  water,  the 
pleasure-boat  was  fastened  to  the  boat-house.  How  was 
be  to  know  the  horrible  secret  of  the  lake? 

"  Come  away,  Airlie!"  cried  Lord  Earle.  '*  I  shall  go 
mad!  I  will  call  all  the  servant*,  and  have  a  regular 
search. " 

In  &  few  minutes  the  wildest  confusion  and  dismay 
reigned  in  the  Hall;  women  wept  aloud,  and  men's 
grew  pale  with  fear.  Their  beautiful,  brilliant  young  mis- 
tress had  disappeared,  and  none  knew  her  fate.  They 
searched  garden,  park,  and  grounds;  men  in  hot  haste 
went  hither  and  thither;  while  Lady  Earle  lay  half  dead 
with  fear,  and  Lillian  rested  calmly,  knowing  nothing  of 
what  had  happened. 

It  was  Lord  Airiie  who  first  suggested  that  the  lake 
should  be  dragged.  The  sun  rode  nigh  in  the  heavens 
then,  and  shone  gloriously  over  water  and  laud. 

They  found  the  drags,  and  Hewson,  the  butler,  with  Lee 
and  Patson,  two  gardeners,  got  into  the  boat.  Father  and 
lover  stood  side  by  side  on  the  bank.  The  boat  glided 
softly  over  the  water;  the  men  had  been  once  round  the 
lake,  but  without  any  result  Hope  was  rising  again  ia 
Lord  Airlie's  heart,  when  he  saw  those  in  the  boat  look  at 
each  other,  then  at  him. 

**  My  lord,"  said  Cowden,  Lord  Earle's  valet,  coming 
up  to  Hubert,  "  pray  take  my  master  home;  they  have 
found  something  at  the  bottom  of  the  lake.  Take  him 
home;  and  please  keep  Lady  Earle  and  the  women  all  out 
of  the  way." 

"  What  is  it?"  cried  .Lord  Eatla  "  Speak  to  me,  Air- 
lie.  What  is  it?" 


DOKA.    THOKNE. 

"  Come  away,"  said  Lord  Airlie.  "  The  men  will  not 
work  while  we  are  here. " 

They  had  found  something  beneath  the  water?  the  drags 
had  caught  in  a  woman's  dress:  and  the  men  in  the  boat 
stood  motionless  until  Lord  Eaile  was  out  of  sight. 

Through  the  depths  of  water  they  saw  the  gleam  of  a 
white,  dead  face,  and  a  floating  mass  of  dark  hair.  They 
raised  the  body  with  reverent  hands.  Strong  men  wept 
aloud  as  they  did  so.  One  covered  the  quiet  face,  and  an- 
other wrung  the  dripping  water  from  the  long  hair.  The 
Bun  shone  on,  as  though  in  mockery,  while  they  carried  the 
drowned  girl  home. 

Slowly  and  with  halting  steps  they  carried  her  through 
the  warm,  sunny  park  where  she  was  never  more  to  tread, 
through  the  bright,  sunlit  gardens,  through  the  hall 
and  up  the  broad  staircase,  the  water  dripping  from  her 
hair  and  falling  in  large  drops,  into  the  pretty  chamber  she 
had  so  lately  quitted  full  of  luo  and  hope.  They  laid  her 
on  the  white  bed  wherefrom  her  eyes  would  never  more 
open  to  the  morning  light,  and  went  away. 

"Drowned,  drowned!  Drowned  and  dead!"  was  the 
cry  that  went  from  lip  to  lip,  till  it  reached  Lord  Earls 
where  he  sat,  trying  to  soothe  his  weeping  mother. 
"Drowned!  Quite  dead!"  was  the  cry  that  reached  Lil- 
lian, in  her  sick-room,  and  brought  her  down  pale  and 
trembling.  "  Drowned  and  dead  hours  ago,"  were  the 
words  that  drove  Lord  Airlie  mail  with  the  bitterness  of  his 
woe. 

They  could  not  realize  it.  How  had  it  happened  ?  Wha*' 
had  taken  her  in  the  dead  of  the  night  to  the  lake? 

They  sent  messengers  right  and  left  to  summon  doctor* 
in  hot  haste,  as  though  human  skill  could  avail  her  now. 

"I  must  see  her,"  said  Lord  Airlie.  "If  you  do  not 
wish  to  kill  me,  let  me  see  her. " 

They  allowed  him  to  enter,  and  Lord  Earle  and  his 
mother  went  with  him.  None  in  that  room  ever  forgot  his 
cry — the  piercing  cry  of  the  strong  man  in  his  agony — as 
he  threw  himself  by  the  dead  girl's  side. 

"  Beatrice,  my  love,  my  darling,  why  could  I  not  have 
died  for  vou?" 

And  then  with  tears  of  sympathy  they  showed  him  how 
even  in  death  tho  white  cold  hand  grasped  his  locket,  hold- 
ing it  so  tightly  that  no  ordinary  foe  could  remove :^ 


DORA    THORNE.  84| 

"  In  life  and  in  death  I"  she  had  said,  and  she  had  kept 
her  word. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

WHILE  the  weeping  group  still  stood  there,  doctors 
came;  they  looked  at  the  quiet  face,  so  beautiful  in  death, 
and  said  slid  had  been  dead  for  hours.  The  words  struck 
tbose  who  heard  them  with  unutterable  horror.  Dead, 
while  those  who  loved  her  so  dearly,  who  would  have  given 
their  lives  for  her,  had  lain  sleepii,^  near  her,  unconscious 
of  her  doom — dead,  while  her  lover  had  waited  for  her,  and 
her  father  had  been  intently  thinking  of  her  approaching 
wedding. 

What  had  she  suffered  during  that  night?  What  awful 
atonn  of  agony  had  driven  her  to  the  lake?  Had  she  gone 
thither  purposely?  Had  she  wandered  to  the  edge  and 
fallen  in,  or  was  there  a  deeper  mystery?  Had  foul 
wrong  been  done  to  Lord  Earle's  daughter  while  he  was 
BO  near  her,  and  yet  knew  nothing  of  it? 

She  still  wore  her  pretty  pink  evening-dress.  What  a 
mockery  it  looked!  The  delicate  laces  were  wet  and 
spoiled;  the  pink  blossoms  she  had  twined  in  her  hair  clung 
to  it  still;  the  diamond  arrow  Lord  Airlie  had  given  her 
fastened  them,  a  diamond  brooch  was  in  the  bodice,  of  her 
dress,  and  a  costly  bracelet  encircled  the  white,  cold  arm. 
She  had  not,  then,  removed  her  jewels  or  changed  her 
dress.  What  could  have  taken  her  down  to  tht>  lake? 
Why  was  Lord  Airlie's  locket  so  tightly  clinched  in  her 
hand? 

Lord  Airlie,  when  he  was  calm  enough  to  speak,  sag- 

fested  that  she  might  have  fallen  asleep,  tired,  before  un- 
ressing — that  in  her  sleep  she  might  have  walked  out, 
gone  to  the  edge  of  the  hike,  and  fallen  in. 

That  version  spread  among  the  servants.     From  them  it 

id  like  wildfire  around    the  whole  country-side;  I  he 

country  papers  were  filled  with  it,  and  the  London  papers 

afterward  told  how  "  the  beautiful  Miss  Earle  "  had  been 

'         ;ed  while  walking  in  her  s! 

I '.ut  Lord   Airlie's   suggestion   did    not  satisfy  Ronald 
:  he  would  not  leave  the  darkened  chamber.     Wom- 
en's gentle    hands    removed    th--  bright  jewels   and   the 
evening-dress.     Lady  Helena,   with  tears  that  fell    like 


84*'  UORA    THORNS. 

rain,  dried  tne  long,  waving  hair,  and  drew  it  back  from 
the  placid  brow.  She  closed  the  eyes,  but  she  could  not 
cross  the  white  hands  on  the  cold  breast.  One  held  the 
locket  in  the  firm,  tight  clasp  of  death,  and  it  could  not  be 
moved. 

Ronald  would  not  leave  the  room.  Gentle  hands  fin- 
ished their  task.  Beatrice  lay  in  the  awful  beauty  of  death 
— no  pain,  no  sorrow  moving  the  serene  loveliness  of  her 
placid  brow.  He  knelt  by  her  side.  It  was  his  little  Bea- 
trice, this  strange,  cold,  marble  statue — his  little  baby 
Beatrice,  who  had  leaped  in  his  arms  years  ago,  who  had 
cried  and  laughed,  who  had  learned  in  pretty  accents  to 
lisp  his  namu — his  beautiful  child,  his  proud,  bright 
daughter,  who  had  kissed  him  the  previous  night  while  he 
spoke  jesting  words  to  her  about  her  lover.  And  he  had 
never  heard  her  voice  since — never  would  hear  it  again. 
Had  she  called  him  when  Me  dark  waters  closed  over  her 
bright  head? 

Cold,  motionless,  no  gleam  of  life  or  light — and  this  was 
Dora's  little  child!  He  uttered  a  great  cry  as  the  thought 
struck  him:  "  What  would  Dora  say?"  He  loved  Bea- 
trice.; yet  for  all  the  long  years  of  her  childhood  he  had 
been  absent  from  her.  How  must  Dora  love  the  child  who 
had  slept  on  her  bosom,  and  who  was  now  parted  from  her 
forever. 

And  then  his  thoughts  went  back  to  the  old  subject: 
"  How  had  it  happened?  What  had  taken  her  to  the  lake?" 

One  knelt  near  who  might  have  told  him,  but  a  numb, 
awful  dread  had  seized  upon  Lillian.  Already  weak  and 
ill,  she  was  unable  to  think,  unable  to  shape  her  ideas,  un- 
able to  tell  right  froia  wrong. 

She  alone  held  the  clew  to  the  mystery,  and  she  knelt  by 
that  death-bed  with,  pale,  parted  lips  and  eyes  full  of  ter- 
ror. Her  face  startled  those  who  saw  it  Her  sorrow 
found  no  vent  in  tears;  the  gentle  eyes  seemed  changed 
into  balls  of  fire;  she  could  not  realize  that  it  was  Beatrice 
who  lay  there,  so  calm  and  still — Beatrice,  who  had  knelt 
at  her  feet  and  prayed  that  she  would  save  her — Beatrice, 
who  had  believed  herself  so  near  the  climax  of  her  happi- 
ness. 

Could  she  have  met  Hugh,  and  had  he  murdered  her? 
Look  where  she  would,  Lillian  saw  that  question  written 
in  fiery  letters.  What  ought  she  to  do?  Must  she  tell 


DORA    THORNE.  243 

Lord  Earle,  or  did  the  promise  she  had  made  bind  her  in 
death  as  well  as  in  life?  Nothing  could  restore  her  sister. 
Ought  she  to  tell  all  she  knew,  and  to  stain  in  death  the 
name  that  was  honored  and  loved? 

One  of  the  doctors  called  in  saw  the  face  of  Lillian 
Kiirle.  He  went  at  once  to  Lady  Helena,  and  told  her 
that  if  the  young  lady  was  not  removed  from  that  room 
and  kept  quiet  she  would  be  in  danger  of  her  life. 

*'  If  ever  1  saw  a  face  denoting  that  the  brain  was  dis- 
turbed/' he  said,  "  that  is  one. 

Lillian  was  taken  back  to  her  room,  and  left  with  care- 
f  ;il  nurses.     But  the  doctor's  warning  proved  trua     While 
K:irle  wept  over  the  dead  child,  Lady  Helena  mourned 
the  living  one,  whose  life  hung  by  a  thread. 
The  day  wore  on;  the  gloom  of  sorrow  and  mourning 
had  settled  on  the  Hall.     Servants  spoke  with  hushed  voices 
and  moved  with  gentle  tread.     Lady  Helena  sat  in  the 
darkened  room  where  Lillian  lay.     Lord  Airlie  had  shut 
himself  up  alone,  and  Ronald  Earle  knelt  all  day  by  his 
dead  child.     In  vain  they  entreated  him  to  move,  to  take 
food  or  wine,  to  go  to  his  own  room.     He  remained  by  IHT, 
trying  to  glean  from  that  silent  face  the  secret  of  her  death. 
And,  when  night  fell  again,  he  sunk  exhausted.     Fever- 
ish slumbers  came  to  him,  filled  with  a  haunted  dream  of 
ice  sinking  in  the  dark  water  and  calling  upon  him 
for  help.     Kindly  faces  watched  over  him,  kindly  hands 
1  him.     The  morning  sun  found  him  still  there. 
:y  Helena  brought  him  some  tea  and  besought  him 
to  ilrink  it.     The  parched,  dried  lips  almost  refused  their 
office.     It  was  an  hour  afterward  that  Hewson  entered  the 
room,  bearing  a  letter  in   his  hand.     It  was  brought,  he 
said,  by  Thomas  Ginns,  who  lived  at  the  cottage  past  Pair 
(ilunn  hills.     It  had  been  written  by  a  man  who  lay  dying 
there,  and  who  had  prayed  him  to  take  it  at  once  without 
delay. 

"  I  ventured  to  bring*  it  to  you,  my  lord,"  said  the  but- 
"the  man  seemed  to  think  it  a  matter  of  life  or 
death." 

Lord  Earle  took  the  letter  from  his  hands — he  tried  to 

it,  but  the  trembling  fingers  seemed  powerless.     He 

signed  to  Hewson  to  leave  the  room,  and,  placing  the  let- 

ipon   the  table,  resumed  his  melancholy  watch.     But 

;ne  strange  wav  hia  thoupSts  wandered  to  the  missive 

"• 


244  DORA    THORNE. 

Wkat  might  it  not  contain,  brought  to  him,  too,  in  the 
solemn  death-chamber?  He  opened  it,  and  found  many 
sheets  of  closely  covered  paper.  On  the  first  was  written! 
*'  The  Confession  of  Hugh  Fernely." 

The-  name  told  him  nothing.  Suddenly  an  idea  came  to 
him  —  could  this  confession  have  anything  to  do  with  the 
fate  of  the  beloved  child  who  lay  before  him?  Kneeling  by 
the  dead  child's  side,  he  turned  over  the  leaf  and  read  as 
follows: 


"  Lord  Earle,  I  am  dying  —  the  hand  tracing  this 
soon  be  cold.  Before  1  die  I  must  confess  my  crime. 
Even  now,  perhaps,  you  are  kneeling  by  the  side  of  the 
child  lost  to  you  for  all  time.  My  lord,  I  killed  her. 

"  1  met  her  first  nearly  three  years  ago,  at  Knutsford; 
she  was  out  alone,  and  I  saw  her.  1  loved  her  then  as  1 
love  her  now.  By  mere  accident  I  heard  her  deplore  the 
lonely,  isolated  life  she  led,  and  that  in  such  terms  that  I 
pitied  her.  She  was  young,  beautiful,  full  of  life  and 
spirits;  she  was  pining  away  in  that  remote  home,  shut  out 
from  the  living  world  she  longed  for  with  a  longing  1  can 
not  put  into  words.  I  spoke  to  her  —  do  not  blame  her,  she 
was  a  beautiful,  ignorant  child  —  1  spoke  to  her,  asking 
some  questions  about  the  road,  and  she  replied.  Looking 
at  her  face,  I  swore  that  1  would  release  her  from  the  life 
she  hated,  and  take  her  where  she  would  be  happy. 

"  I  met  her  again  and  again.  Heaven  paraon  me  if  I 
did  my  best  to  awake  an  interest  in  her  girlish  heart!  I 
told  her  stories  of  travel  and  adventure  that  stirred  all  the 
romance  in  her  nature.  With  the  keen  instinct  of  love  I 
understood  her  character,  and  played  upon  its  weakness 
while  1  worshiped  its  strength. 

"  She  told  me  of  a  sad,  "patient  young  mother  who  never 
smiled,  of  a  father  who  was  abroad  and  would  not  return 
for  many  years.  Pardon  me,  my  lord,  if,  in  common 
with  many  others,  1  believed  that  story  to  be  one  to  appease 
her.  Pardon  me,  if  1  doubted  —  as  many  others  did  — 
whether  the  sad  young  mother  was  your  wife. 

"  I  imagined  that  I  was  going  to  rescue  her  from  a  faieS 
position  when  I  asked  her  to  be  my  wife.  She  said  her 
mother  dreaded  all  mention  of  love  and  lovers,  and  1 
prayed  her  to  keep  my  love  a  secret  from  all  the  world. 

'  T  in  -ike  no  excuses  for  myjelf;  she  was  young  and  inno* 


BORA    THOBNE,  245 

cent  as  a  areuuiing  child.  I  ought  to  have  looked  on  her 
beautiful  face  and  left  her.  My  lord,  am  1  altogether  to 
blame?  The  louely  young  giri  at  Knutsford  pined  for  what 
I  could  give  her — happiness  and  pleasure  did  not  seem  so 
far  removed  from  me.  Had  she  been  in  her  proper  place 
1  could  never  have  addressed  her. 

"  Not  to  you  can  I  tell  the  details  of  my  love  story — how 
1  worshiped  with  passionate  love  the  beautiful,  innocent 
chil'l  who  smiled  into  my  face  and  drank  in  my  words.  1 
asked  her  to  be  my  wife,  and  she  promised.  My  lord,  I 
never  for  a  moment  dreamed  that  she  would  ever  have  a 
home  with  you— it  did  not  seem  to  me  possible.  1  intended 
to  return  and  marry  her,  firmly  believing  that  in  some 
respects  my  rank  and  condition  in  life  were  better  than  her 
<  \vn.  She  promised  to  be  true  to  me,  to  love  no  one  else,  to 
wait  for  me,  and  to  marry  me  when  I  returned. 

"  1  bi-lieve  now  that  she  never  loved  me.  My  love  and 
devotion  were  but  a  pleasant  interruption  to  the  monotony 
of  her  life.  They  were  to  blame  also  who  allowed  her  no 
pleasures — who  forced  her  to  resort  to  this  stolen  one. 

"  My  lord,  I  placed  a  ring  upon  your  daughter's  finger, 
and  pledged  my  faith  to  her.     1  can  not  tell  you  what  my 
was  like;  it  was  a  fierce  fire  that  consumed  me  night 
it ud  day. 

"  1  was  to  return  and  claim  her  in  two  years.     Absence 

made  me  love  her  more.     I  came  back,  rich  in  gold,  my 

full  of  happiness,  hope  making  everything  hright  and 

.:iful.     I  went  straight  to  Knutsford — alas!  she  was 

jio  longer  there!  and  then  1  heard  that  the  girl  I  loved  so 

y  and  so  dearly  was  Lord  Earle's  daughter. 

"  1  'did  uotdream  of  losing  her;  birth,  title,  and  position 

•  id  as  nothing  beside  my  mighty,  passionate  love, 
thought  nothing  of  your  consent,  tut  only  of  her;  and  I 
went  to  Earlescourt.     My  lord,  I  wrote  to  her,  and  my 
heart  was  in  every  line.    She  sent  me  a  cold  reply.    I  wrote 
again;  I  swore  I  would  see  her.     She  sent  her  sister  to  me 
v'ith  the  reply.    Then  1  g a- w  desperate,  and  vowed  I  would 
iiv  claim  before  you.     I  asked  her  to  meet  me  out  in 
the  grounds,  at  night,  mist'im  and   unknown.     She  con- 
d,  and  on  Thursday  night  1  met  her  near  the  shrub- 
bery. 

'"  How  I  remember  her  pretty  pleading  words,  her  beau- 
tiful proud  face!  She  asked  me  to  release  her.  She  said 


246  DORA    THORNE. 

that  it  had  all  been  child's  play — a  foolish  mistake- 
that  if  I  would  give  her  her  freedom  from  a  foolish  prom;,  j 
she  would  always  be  my  friend.  At  first  I  would  not  huir 
of  it;  but  who  could  have  refused  her?  If  she  had  told 
me  to  lie  down  at  her  feet  and  let  her  trample  the  life  out 
of  me,  I  should  have  submitted. 

"  I  promised  to  think  of  her  request,  and  we  walked  on 
to  the  border  of  the  lake.  Every  hair  upon  her  head  waa 
e»acred  to  me;  the  pretty,  proud  ways  that  tormented  ma 
delighted  me,  too.  1  promised  I  would  release  her,  and 
give  her  the  freedom  she  asked,  if  she  told  me  I  was  not 
giving  her  up  to  another.  She  would  not.  Some  few 
words  drove  me  mad  with  jealous  rage — yes,  mad;  the 
blood  seemed  to  boil  in  my  veins.  Suddenly  I  caught  sight 
of  a  golden  locket  on  her  neck,  and  I  asked  her  whose  por- 
trait it  contained.  She  refused  to  tell  me.  In  the  mad- 
ness of  my  rage  1  tried  to  snatch  it  from  her.  She  caught 
it  in  her  hands,  and,  shrinking  back  from  me,  fell  into  the 
lake. 

"  I  swear  it  was  a  sheer  accident — I  would  not  have  hurt 
a  hair  of  her  head;  but,  oh!  my  lord,  pardon  me — pardon 
me,  for  Heaven's  sake — I  might  have  saved  her  and  I  did 
not;  I  might  have  plunged  in  after  her  and  brought  her  back, 
but  jealousy  whispered  to  me,  '  Do  not  save  her  for  another 
— let  her  die.'  I  stood  upon  the  bank,  and  saw  the  water 
close  over  her  head.  1  saw  the  white  hand  thrown  up  in 
wild  appeal,  and  never  moved  or  stirred.  I  stood  by  the 
lake-side  all  night,  and  fled  when  the  morning  dawned  in 
the  sky. 

"  I  killed  her.  1  might  have  saved  her,  but  did  not 
Anger  of  yours  can  add  nothing  to  my  torture;  think  what 
it  has  been.  1  was  ;a  strong  man  two  days  since;  when  the 
sun  sets  I  shall  be  numbered  with  the  dead.  I  do  not  wish 
to  screen  myself  from  justice.  I  have  to  meet  the  wrath 
of  Heaven,  and  that  appalls  me  as  the  anger  of  man  never 
could.  Send  the  officers  of  the  law  for  me.  If  I  am  not 
dead,  let  them  take  me;  if  1  am,  let  them  bury  me  as  they 
would  a  dog.  I  ask  no  mercy,  no  compassion  nor  forgiv 
en  ess;  I  do  not  merit  it. 

"  If  by  any  torture,  any  death,  I  could  undo  what  I  have 
done,  and  save  her,  I  would  suffer  the  extremity  of  pain; 
*)ut  I  can  not.  My  deed  will  be  judged  in  eternity. 

**  Mv  '  ;  1,  I  write  this  confession  partly  to  ease  mv  ow$ 


DORA    THOENE.  34? 

conscience,  partly  to  shield  others  from  unjust  blame.  Do 
not  curse  me  because,  through  my  mad  jealousy,  my  mis- 
erable revenge,  as  fair  and  pure  a  child  as  father  ever  loved 
has  gone  to  her  rest. " 

So  the  strange  letter  concluded.  Lord  Earle  read  every 
word,  looking  ever  and  anon  at  the  quiet,  dead  face  that 
had  kept  the  secret  hidden.  Every  word  seemed  burner' 
in  upon  his  brain ;  every  word  seemed  to  rise  before  him 
like  an  accusing  spirit. 

He  stood  face  to  face  at  last  with  the  sin  of  his  youth; 
it  had  found  him  out.  The  willful,  wanton  disobedience, 
the  marriage  that  had  broken  his  father's  heart,  and  struck 
Ronald  himself  from  the  roll  of  useful  men;  the  willful, 
cruel  neglect  of  duty;  the  throwing  off  of  all  ties;  the  in- 
dulgence in  proud,  unforgiving  temper,  the  abandonment 
of  wife  and  children — all  ended  there.  But  for  his  sins  and 
errors,  that  white,  still  figure  might  now  have  been  radiant 
with  life  and  beauty. 

The  thought  stung  him  with  cruel  pain.  It  was  his  own 
fault.  Beatrice  might  have  erred  in  meeting  Hugh  Fernely; 
Fernely  had  done  wrong  in  trying  to  win  that  young  child- 
like heart  for  his  own;  but  he  who  left  his  children  to 
strange  hands,  who  neglected  all  duties  of  parentage,  had 
surely  done  I  ho  greatest  wrong. 

tin-  first  time  his  utter  neglect  of  duty  came  home 

to  him.     Liu  had  thought  himself  rather  a  modern  hero, 

but  now  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  himself  as  he  was  in  reality. 

w  that  he  was  not  even  a  brave  man;  for  a  brave  1.1:111 

'•ts  no  duty.     It  was  pitiful  to  see  how  sorrow  bent  his 

stately  figure  and  lined  his  proud  face.    He  leaned  over  his 

:hild.  anil  cried  to  her  to  pardon  him,  for  it  was  all 

.ii.      Lady  Helena,  seeking  him  in  the  gloom  of  that 

solemn  death-chamber,  found  him  weeping  as  strong  ima 

seldom  weep. 

did  not  give  her  the  letter,  nor  tell  her  aught  of 
Hugh  Fernely's  confession.  He  turned  to  her  with  as  sad 
a  face  as  man  ever  wore. 

"  Mother, "he said,  "  1  want  my  kinsman,  Lionel  Dacre. 
J-ct  him  be  sent  for,  and  ask  him  to  come  without  delay/' 

In  thi«,  tin- crowning  sorrow  of  his  life,  hecouid  not  stand 

some  one  to  think  and  to  plan  for 

biin,  iltn  bear  the  burden  "  ;'  too 


248  DORA    THORNE. 

heavy  for  him  to  carry.  Some  one  must  see  the  unhappy 
man  who  had  written  that  letter,  and  it  should  be  a  kins- 
man at  his  own. 

Not  the  brave,  sad  young  lover,  fighting  alone  with  his 
sorrow — he  must  never  know  the  tragedy  of  that  brief  life, 
to  him  her  memory  must  be  sacred  and  untarnished,  un- 
marred  by  the  knowledge  of  her  folly. 

Lady  Helena  was  not  long  in' discovering  Lionel  Dacre's 
whereabouts.  One  of  the  footmen  who  had  attended  him 
to  the  station  remembered  the  name  of  the  place  for  which 
he  had  taken  a  ticket.  Lady  Helena  knew  that  Sir 
William  Greston  lived  close  by,  and  she  sent  at  once  to  his 
house. 

Fortunately  the  messenger  found  him.  Startled  and 
horrified  by  the  news,  Lionel  lost  no  time  in  returning.  He 
could  not  realize  that  his  beautiful  young  cousin  was  really 
dead.  Her  faoe,  in  its  smiling  brightness,  haunted  bias. 
Her  voice  seemed  to  mingle  with  the  wild  clang  of  the  irou 
wheels.  She  was  dead,  and  he  was  going  to  console  her 
father. 

Xo  particulars  of  her  death  had  reached  him;  he  now 
only  knew  that  she  had  walked  out  in^her  sleep,  and  had 
fallen  into  the  lake. 

Twenty-four  hours  had  not  elapsed  since  Lord  Earle  cried 
oat  in  his  grief  for  his  young  kinsman,  yet  already  ha 
stood  by  his  side. 

"  Persuade  him  to  leave  that  room,"  said  Lady  Helena. 

"  Since  our  darling  was  carried  there  he  has  never  left 
her  side." 

Lionel  did  as  requested.  He  went  straight  to  the  library, 
and  sent  for  Lord  Earle,  saying  that  he  could  not  at  pres- 
ent look  upon  the  sad  sight  in  the  gloomy  death-chamber. 

While  waiting  there,  he  heard  of  Lillian's  dangerous  Hi- 
des?. Lady  Helena  told  him  how  she  had  changed  before 
her  sister's  death;  and,  despite  the  young  man's  anger,  hia 
heart  was  sore  and  heavy. 

He  hardly  recognized  Lord  Earle  in  the  aged,  altered 
man  .who  soon  stood  before  him.  The  long  watch,  the  bit- 
ter remorse,  the  miserable  consciousness  of  his  own  folly 
and  errors,  had  written  strange  lines  upon  his  face. 

"  1  sent  for  you,  Lionel,"  he  said,  "  because  1  am  in 
trouble — so  great  that  1  can  no  longer  bear  ifc  alone. 


DORA    THORNE.  84S 

must  think  &nd  work  for  mo;   I  can  do  neither  for  my- 
self." 

Looking  into  his  kinsman's  face,  Lionel  felt  that  more 
ihtui  the  death  of  his  child  weighed  upon  the  heart  and 
mind  of  Ronald  Earle. 

"There    are  secrets  in   every  family,"  said    Ronald; 
iceforth  there  will  be  one  in  mine— and  it  will  be  the 
true  story  of  niy  daughter's  death.     While  I   knelt  yester- 
day by  her  side,  this  letter  was  brought  to  me.     Read  it, 
Lionel;  then  act  for  me." 

lie  read  it  slowly,  tears  gathering  fast  in  his  eyes,  his  lips 
quivering,  and  his  hands  tightly  clinched. 

"My  poor  Beatrice!"  he  exclaimed;  and  then  the 
strength  of  his  young  manhood  gave  way,  and  Lionel  Dacre 
wept  as  he  had  never  wept  before.  "  The  mean,  pitiful 
scoundrel!"  he  cried,  angry  indignation  rising  as  he 
thought  of  her  cruel  death.  **  The  wretched  villain — to 
stand  by  while  she  died!" 

"Hush!"  said  Lord  Earle.  "He  has  gone  to  his  ac- 
count. What  have  you  to  say  to  me,  Lionel?  Because  I 
had  a  miserable  quarrel  with  my  wife  I  abandoned  my 
children.  I  never  cared  to  see  them  from  the  time  they 
were  babes  until  they  were  women  grown.  How  guilty  am 
1?  That  man  believed  he  was  about  to  raise  Beatrice  iu 
the  social  scale  when  he  asked  her  to  be  his  wife,  or  as  he 
says,  he  would  never  have  dreamed  of  proposing  to  marry 
my  daughter.  If  he  merits  blame,  what  do  1  deserve?" 

"It  was'a  false  position,  certainly,"  replied  Lionel 
Dacre. 

"  This  secret  must  be  kept  inviu'ate,"  said  Lord  E:i 
"  Lord  Airlie  must  never  know   it — it  would  kill  Lady 
Hi-lcna,  I  believe.    One  thing  puzzles  me,  Lionel — Fernely 
says  Lillian  met  him.     I  do  not  think  that  is  true." 

"  It  is!"  cried  Lionel,  a  sudden  light  breaking  in  upon 
him.  "  1  saw  her  with  him.  Oh,  Lord  Earle,  you  may 
be  proud  of  Lillian!  She  is  the  noblest,  truest  giri 
ever  lived.  Why,  she  sacrificed  her  own  love,  her  own  hap- 
pinesd,  for  her  sifter!  She  loved  me;  and  when  this  wed- 
ding, which  will  never  now  take  place,  was  over,  I  intended 
to  ask  you  to  give  me  Lillian.  One  night,  (jiiite  accident- 
ally, while  I  was  wandering  in  the  grounds  with  a  cigar,  1 
saw  her  speaking  to  a  stranger,  her  fair  sweet  face  full  of 
;>it.vT  »nd  compassion,  which  1  mistook  for  l«ve.  Shame  td 


850  .DORA    TEOENH. 

ine  that  1  was  base  enough  to  doubt  her — that  1  spoke  t« 
her  the  words  I  uttered!  1  demanded  to  know  who  it  was 
she  had  met,  and  why  she  had  met  him.  She  asked  me  to 
trust  her,  saying  she  could  not  tell  me.  I  stabbed  her  with 
cruel  words,  and  left  her  vowing  that  1  would  never  see  her 
"igain.  Her  sister  must  have  trusted  her  with  her  secret, 
uid  she  would  not  divulge  it." 

"  We  can  not  ask  her  now/*  said  Lord  Earle;  "  my 
•nether  tells  me  she  is  very  ill." 

"  1  must  see  her,"  cried  Lionel,  "  and  ask  her  to  pardon 
me  if  she  can.  What  am  I  to  do  for  you,  Lord  Earle? 
Command  me  as  though  I  were  your  own  son." 

**  I  want  you  to  go  to  the  cottage,"  said  Ronald,  "  and 
see  if  the  man  is  living  or  dead.  You  will  know  how  to 
act.  I  need  not  ask  a  kinsman  and  a  gentleman  to  keep 
my  secret. " 

In  a  few  minutes  Lionel  Dacre  was  on  his  way  to  the 
cottage,  riding  as  though  it  were  for  dear  life.  Death  had 
been  still  more  swift.  Hugh  Fernely  lay  dead. 

The  cottager's  wife  told  Lionel  how  the  children  out  at 
play  had  found  a  man  lying  in  the  dank  grass  near  the 
pond,  and  how  her  husband,  in  his  own  strong  arms,  had 
brought  him  to  their  abode.  He  lay  still  for  many  hours, 
and  then  asked  for  pen  and  ink.  He  was  writing,  she  said, 
nearly  ail  night,  and  afterward  prayed  her  husband  to 
take  the  letter  to  Lord  Earle.  The  man  refused  any  nour- 
ishment. Two  hours  later  they  went  in  to  persuade  him 
to  take  some  food,  and  found  him  lying  dead,  his  face  turned 
to  the  morning  sky. 

Lionel  Dacre  entered  the  room.  The  hot  anger  died  out 
of  his  heart  as  he  saw  the  anguish  death  had  marked  upon 
the  wl  He  countenance.  What  torture  must  the  man  have 
suffered, -what  hours  of  untold  agony,  to  have  destroyed 
him  in  so  short  a  time!  The  dark,  handsome  face  appeared 
to  indicate  that  the  man  had  been  dying  for  years. 

Lionel  turned  reverently  away.  Mail  is  weak  and  power- 
less before  death.  In  a  few  words  he  told  the  woman  that 
she  should  be  amply  rewarded  for  her  kindness,  and  that 
he  himself  would  defray  all  expenses. 

*'  He  was  perhaps  an  old  servant  of  my  lord's?"  she  said. 

"  No,"  was  the  reply;  "  Lord  Earle  did  not  know  him 
—had  never  seen  him;  but  the  poor  man  was  well  known  to 
one  of  Lord  Ewle'a  friends." 


DORA    THORNS.  £*1 

Thanks  to  Lionel's  words,  the  faintest  shadow  of  ens» 
>>  was  never  raised.     Of  the  two  deaths,  that  of  Miss 
Ea:Ie  excited  all  attention  and  armised  all  sympathy.     No 
one  spoke  of  Hugh  Fcrnely,  or  connected  him  with  the  oc- 
currence at  the  Hall. 

There  was  an  inquest,  and  men  decided  that  he  had  *'  died 

by  the  visitation  of  God."     No  ona  knew  the  agony  that 

had  cast  him  prostrate  in   the  thick,  dank  grass,  no  one 

knew  the  unendurable  anguish  that  had  shortened  his  life. 

*  ****** 

When  Lionel  returned  to  the  Hall,  he  went  straight  to 
;  Earle. 

"  1  was  too  late/'  he  said;  "  the  man  had  been  dead  some 
hours. " 

His  name  was  not  mentioned  between  them  again.  Lord 
Earle  never  inquired  where  he  was  buried — he  never 
knew. 

The  gloom  had  deepened  at  the  Hall.  Lillian  Earle  lay 
nigh  unto  death.  Many  believed  that  the  master  of  Earles- 
court  would  soon  be  a  childless  man.  He  could  not  realize 
it.  They  told  him  how  she  lay  with  the  cruel  raging  fever 
sapping  her  life,  but  he  seemed  to  forgot  the  living  child  in 
mourning  for  the  one  that  lay  dead. 

In  compliance  with  Lionel's  prayer,  Lady  Helena  took 
him  into  the  sick-room  where  Lillian  lay.  She  did  not 
know  him;  the  gentle,  tender  eyes  were  full  of  dread  and 
fear;  the  fair,  pure  face  was  burning  with  lhe  Hush  of 
fever;  the  hot,  dry  lips  were  never  still.  She  talked  in- 
cessantly— at  times  of  Knutsford  and  Beatrice — then  prayed 
in  her  sweet,  sad  voice  that  Lionel  would  trust  her  — only 
trust  her;  when  Beatrice  was  married  she  would  tell  him 
all. 

He  turned  away;  her  eyes  had  lingered  on  his  face,  but 
no  g]<-am  of  recognition  came  into  them. 

"  You  do  not  think  she  will  die?"  he  asked  of  Lady 
Helena;  and  she  never  forgot  his  voice  or  his  manner. 

"  We  hope  not," she  said;  "  life  and  death  are  in  higher 
hands  than  ours.  If  yon  wish  to  help  her  pray  for  her." 

In  after  years  Lionel  Dacre  liked  to  remember  that  the 
List  aii'J  in —t  fervent  prayers  of  his  life  had  been  offered 
for  gentle,  innocent  Lillian  Earle. 

As  bf  furred  to  quit  the  chamber  he  heard  her  crying  for 


252  DORA    THOKNE. 

her  mother.     She  wanted  her  mother — why  was  she  not 
there?    He  looked  at  Lady  Helena:  she  understood  him. 

"  I  have  written,"  she  said.    "  I  sent  for  Dora  yesterday, 
she  will  be  here  soon. " 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

ON  the  second  day  succeeding  that  on  which  Dora  had 
been  sent  for  Beatrice  Earle  was  to  be  laid  in  her  grave. 
The  servants  of  the  household,  who  had  dearly  loved  their 
beautiful  young  mistress,  had  taken  their  last  look  at  her 
face.  Lady  Helena  had  shed  her  last  tears  over  it.  Lord 
Airlie  had  asked  to  be  alone  for  a  time  with  his  dead  love. 
They  had  humored  him,  and  for  thn  e  long  hours  he  had 
knelt  by  her,  bidding  her  a  sorrowful  farewell,  taking  hia 
last  look  at  the  face  that  would  never  again  smile  on  earth 
for  him. 

They  respected  the  bitterness  of  his  uncontrollable  sorrow; 
"no  idle  words  of  sympathy  were  offered  to  him;  men  passed 
him  by  with  an  averted  face — women  with  tearful  eyes. 

Lord  Earle  was  alone  with  his  dead  child.  In  a  little 
while  nothing  would  remain  of  his  beautiful,  brilliant 
daughter  but  a  memory  and  a  name.  He  did  not  weep; 
his  sorrow  lay  too  deep  for  tears.  In  his  heart  he  was  ask- 
ing pardon  for  the  sins  and  follies  of  his  youth;  his  face  was 
buried  in  his  hands,  his  head  bowed  over  the  silent  form  of 
his  loved  child;  and  when  the  door  opened  gently,  he  never 
raised  his  eyes — he  was  only  conscious  that  some  one  entered 
the  room,  and  walked  swiftly  up  the  gloomy,  darkened 
chamber  to  the  bedside.  Then  a  passionate  wailing  that 
f  hilled  his  very  blood  filled  the  rooms. 

"  My  Beatrice,  my  darling!  why  could  I  not  have  died  tot 
you?"' 

Some  one  bent  over  the  quiet  figure,  clasping  it  in 
tender  arms,  calling  with  a  thousand  loving  words  upon 
the  dear  one  who  lay  there — some  one  whose  voice  fell  like 
a  strain  of  long-forgotten  music  upon  his  ears.-  Who  but 
a  mother  could  weep  as  she  did?  Who  but  a  mother  for- 
get everything  else  in  the  abandonment  of  her  sorrow,  and 
remember  only  the  dead? 

Before  he  looked  up,  he  knew  it  was  Dora — the  mother 
bereft  of  her  child — the  mother  clasping  in  her  loving  arms 
the  child  she  had  nursed,  watched,  and  loved  for  so 


DORA    THORNE.  253 

fears.     She  gazed  at  him,  and  he  never  forgot  the  wciul, 
weeping  face. 

"Ronald,"  she  cried,  "I  trusted  my  darling  to  you; 
what  has  happened  to  her?" 

The  first  words  for  many  long  years — the  first  since  he 
hud  turned  romul  upon  her  in  his  contempt,  hoping  he 
migiit  be  forgiven  for  having  made  her  his  wife. 

She  seemed  to  forget  him  then,  and  laid  her  head  down 
upon  the  quiet  heatt;  but  Ronald  went  round  to  her.  Ho 
raised  her  in  his  arms,  he  laid  the  weeping  face  on  his 
biTtist,  he  kissed  away  the  blinding  tears,  and  she  cried  to 
him: 

"  Forgive  me,  Ronald — forgive  me!  You  can  not  refuse 
in  the  hour  of  death." 

How  the  words  smote  him.  They  were  his  own  recoiliug 
upon  him.  How  often  he  had  refused  his  mother's  plead- 
ing— hardened  his  own  heart,  saying  to  himself  and  to  her 
that  he  could  not  pardon  her  yet — he  would  forgive  her  in 
the  hour  of  death,  when  either  he  or  she  stood  on  the 
threshold  of  eternity! 

Heaven  had  not  willed  it  so.  The  pardon  he  had  refused 
was  wrung  from  him  now;  and,  looking  at  his  child,  he 
fill  that  she  was  sacrificed  to  his  blind,  willful  pride. 

"  You  will  forgive    me,  Ronald,"  pleaded  the  gentle 
voice,  "for  the  love  of  my  dead  child?    Do  not  send  me 
from  you  again.     1  have  been  very  unhappy  all  these  long 
years;  let  me  stay  with  you  now.     Dear.  I  was  besidi 
self  with  jealousy  when  I  acted  as  I  did." 

"  1  forgive  you,"  he  said,  gently;  "  can  you  pardon  me 
as  easily,  Dora?     I  have  spoiled  your  life— 1  havedon- 
cruel   wrong;   can  you  forget  all,  and  love  me  as  you  did 
y«  .ii--  igO? 

All  pride,  restraint,  and  anger  were  dead.  lie  whisj 
loving  words  to  his  weeping  wife,  such  as  she  hud  not  i. 
for  years;  and  he  could  have  :'.  did  so,  that  a 

happy  smile  lingered  on  the  fair  face,  of  the  dead. 

.  it  was  but  the  light  of  a  .•  Dickering  over 

it;    the  strange,  solemn  beauty  of   thai  serene  brow  and 
those  quiet  lips  were  unstirred. 

llulf  an  hour  after\v;i'.i  I. ;uly  Helena,  trembling  from 
the,  result  of  her  experin,  .  a  to  red  the  room.  She  saw 
Ronald 'a  arms  claspM  roujui  Dora,  while  they  knelt  side 


854  00RA    THORtfE  , 

"Mother,"  ^aid  Lord  Earle,  "  my  wife  has  pardoned 
Bie.  She  is  my  own  again — my  comfort  in  sorrow." 

Lady  Earle  touched  Dora's  face  with  her  lips,  and  told 
what  her  errand  was.  The}*  must  leave  the  room  now—- 
the beautiful  face  of  Beatrice  Sarle  was  to  be  hidden  for- 
ever from  the  signt  of  men. 

******* 

That  evening  was  long  remembered  at  Earlesconrt;  for 
Lady  Dora  thenceforward  took  her  rightful  position.  She 
fell  at  once  into  the  spirit  of  the  place,  attending  to  every 
one  and  thinking  of  every  one's  comfort. 

Lillian  was  fighting  hard  for  her  young  life.  She  seemed 
in  some  vague  way  to  understand  that  her  mother  was 
near.  Lady  Dora's  hand  soothed  and  calmed  her,  her 
gentle  motherly  ways  brought  comfort  and  rest;  but  many 
long  days  passed  before  Lillian  knew  those  around  her,  or 
woke  from  her  troubled,  feverish  dream.  When  she  did  so, 
her  sister  had  been  laid  to  rest  in  her  long,  last  home. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

People  said  afterward  that  no  fairer  day  had  ever  been 
than  that  on  which  Beatrice  Earle  was  buried.  The  sun 
shone  bright  and  warm,  the  birds  were  singing,  the  autumn 
flowers  were  in  bloom,  as  the  long  procession  wound  its 
way  through  the  trees  in  the  park;  the  leaves  fell  from 
the  trees,  while  the  long  grass  rustled  under  the  tread  ol 
many  feet. 

Lord  Earle  and  Hubert  Airlie  were  together.  Kindly 
hearts  knew  not  which  to  pity  the  more— the  father  whose 
heart  seemed  broken  by  his  sorrow,  or  the  young  lover  so 
suddenly  bereft  of  all  he  loved  best.  From  far  and  near 
friends  and  strangers  gathered  to  that  mournful  ceremony; 
from  one  to  another  the  story  flew  how  beautiful  she  was, 
and  how  dearly  the  young  lord  had  loved  her — how  she 
had  wandered  out  of  the  house  in  her  sleep  and  fallen  into 
the  lake. 

They  laid  her  to  rest  in  the  green  church-yard  at  the 

foot  of  the  hill — the  burial-place  of  the  Earles. 

******* 

The  death-bell  had  ceased  ringing;  the  long  white  blinds 
of  the  Hall  windows  were  drawn  up;  the  sunshine  played 
once  more  in  the  rooms;  tha  carriages  of  sorrowing  friends 
were  gone;  the  funeral  was  over.  Of  the  beautiful,  brill- 
vant  Beatrice  E--r-id  there  remained  but  a  memor.v 


DORA    THORITE.  255 

They  told  afterward  how  Gaspar  Laurence  watched  the 
funn-al  profession,  and  how  he  had  lingered  last  of  all  in 
the  little  <jhurch-yard.  He  never  forgot  Beatrice;  he  never 
looked  into  the  face  of  another  woman  with  love  on  his 
own. 

It  was  all  over,  and  on  the  evening  of  that  same  day  a 
quiet,  deep  sleep  came  to  Lillian  Earle.  It  saved  her  life;  the 
wearied  brain  found  rest.  When  she  awoke,  the  lurid  light 
of  fever  died  out  of  her  eyes,  and  they  looked  in  gratified 
amazement  upon  Lady  Dora  who  sat  by  her  side. 

"  Mamma,"  she  whispered,  *'  am  1  at  home  at  Knuta 
ford?" 

Dora  soothed  her,  almost  dreading  the  time  when  mercy 
ory  should  awaken  in  full  force.  It  seemed  partly  to  re» 
turn  then,  for  Lillian  gave  vent  to  a  wearied  sigh,  and 
closed  her  eyes. 

Then  Dora  saw  a  little  of  wild  alarm  cross  her  face.  She 
sprung  up  crying: 

'*  Mamma,  is  it  true?    Is  Beatrice  dead?" 

"  It  is  true,  my  darling,"  whispered  her  mother,  gently. 
'*  Dead,  but  not  lost  to  us — only  gone  before.'* 

The  young  girl  recovered  very  slowly.  The  skillful  doc- 
tor in  attendance  upon  her  said  that,  as  soon  as  it  was  pos- 
sible to  remove  her,  she  should  be  carried  direct  from  her 
room  to  a  traveling-carriage,  taken  from  home,  and  not 
allowed  to  return  to  the  Hall  until  she  was  stronger  and 
better. 

They  waited  until  that  day  came,  and  meanwhile  Lady 
Dora  Earle  learned  to  esteem  Lord  Airlie  very  dearly.  He 
seemed  to  find  more  comfort  with  her  than  with  any  one 
else.  They  spoke  but  of  one  subject — the  loved,  lost  Bea- 
trice. 

Her  secret  was  never  known.  Lord  Earle  and  Lionel 
Dacre  kept  it  faithfully.  No  allusion  to  it  ever  crossed 
their  lips.  To  Lord  Airlie,  while  he  lived,  the  memory  of 
the  girl  he  had  loved  so  well  was  pure  and  untarnished  as 
the  falling  snow.  Not  even  to  her  mother  was  the  story 
told.  Dora  believed,  as  did  every  one  else,  that  Beatrice 
had  fallen  accidentally  into  the  lake. 

When  Lillian  grew  stronger — better  able  to  bear  the 
mention  of  her  sister's  name — Lord  Earle  went  to  her 
room  one  day,  and,  gently  enough,  tried  to  win  her  to 
speak  <o  him  of  what  she  knew. 


856  DORA    THOENE. 

She  told  him  all — of  her  sister's  sorrow,  remorse,  and 
tears;  her  longing  to  be  free  from  the  wretched  snare  in 
which  she  was  caught;  how  she  pleaded  with  her  to  inter- 
fere. She  told  him  of  her  short  interview  with  the  unhappy 
man,  and  its  sad  consequences  for  her. 

Then  the  subject  dropped  forever.  Lord  Earle  said 
nothing  to  her  of  Lionel,  thinking  it  would  be  better  for 
the  young  lover  to  plead  his  own  cause. 

One  morning,  when  she  was  able  to  rise  and  sit  up  for  a 
time,  Lionel  asked  permission  to  see  her.  Lady  Dora,  who 
knew  nothing  of  what  had  passed  between  them,  unhesitat- 
ingly consented. 

She  was  alarmed  when,  as  he  entered  the  room,  she  saw 
her  daughter's  gentle  face  grow  deathly  pale. 

"  1  have  done  wrong,"  she  said.  "  Lillian  is  not  strong 
enough  to  see  visitors  yet." 

"  Dear  Lady  Dora,"  explained  Lionel,  taking  her  hand, 
"  I  love  Lillian;  and  she  loved  me  before  I  was  so  unhap- 
py as  to  offend  her.  I  have  come  to  beg  her  pardon.  Will 
you  trust  her  with  me  for  a  few  minutes?" 

Lady  Dora  assented,  and  went  away,  leaving  them  to- 
gether. 

"  Lillian,"  said  Lionel,  "  1  do  not  know  in  what  words 
to  beg  your  forgiveness.  I  am  ashamed  and  humbled.  I 
know  your  sister's  story,  and  all  that  you  did  to  save  her. 
When  one  was  to  be  sacrificed,  you  were  the  victim.  Can 
you  ever  forgive  me?" 

"  I  forgive  you  freely,"  she  gently  answered.  "  I  have 
been  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death,  and  all  human 
resentment  and  unkindness  seem  as  nothing  to  me." 

*'  And  may  I  be  to  you  as  1  was  before?"  he  asked. 

"  That  is  another  question,"  she  said.  "  I  can  not  an- 
swer it  now.  You  did  not  trust  me,  Lionel. " 

Those  were  the  only  words  of  reproach  she  ever  uttered 
to  him.  He  did  not  annoy  her  with  protestation;  he  trust- 
ed that  time  would  do  for  him  what  he  saw  just  then  he 
could  not  do  for  himself. 

He  sat  down  upon  the  couch  by  her  side,  and  began  to 
speak  to  her  of  the  tour  she  was  about  to  make;  of  the 
places  she  should  visit — carefully  avoiding  all  reference  to 
the  troubled  past. 

Tkree  days  afterward  Lillian  started  on  her  journey  to 
the  south  of  France  insisted  upon  by  the  doctor.  Lord 


DORA  THOBNE.  257 

Earle  and  his  wife  took  charge  of  their  child;  Lord  Airlie, 
declaring  he  could  not  yet  endure  Lynnton,  went  with 
them.  Lady  Helena  and  Lionel  Dacre  remained  at  home, 
in  charge  of  the  Hall  and  the  estate. 

One  thing  the  latter  had  resolved  upon — that,  before  the 
travelers  returned,  the  lake  should  be  filled  up,  and  green 
trees  planted  over  the  spot  where  its  waters  now  glistened 
in  the  sun. 

No  matter  how  great  the  expense  and  trouble,  he  was 
resolved  that  it  should  be  done. 

"  Earlescourt  would  be  wretched,"  he  said,  "  if  that  fatal 
lake  remained." 

The  day  after  the  family  left  Earlescourt,  he  had  work- 
men engaged.  No  one  was  sorry  at  his  determination. 
Lady  Helena  highly  approved  of  it.  The  water  was  drained 
off,  the  deep  basin  filled  with  earth,  and  tall  saplings  plant- 
ed where  once  the  water  had  glistened  in  the  sun.  The 
boat-house  was  pulled  down,  and  all  vestige  of  the  lake 
was  done  away  with. 

Lionel  Dacre  came  home  one  evening  from  the  works  in 
very  low  spirits.  Imbedded  in  the  bottom  of  the  lake  they 
had  found  a  little  slipper — the  fellow  to  it  was  locked 
away  in  Dora's  drawer.  He  saved  it  to  give  it  to  her  when 
she  returned. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

Two  years  passed  away,  and  the  travelers  thought  of  re- 
turning. Lillian  had  recovered  health  and  strength,  and, 
Lord  Earle  said,  longed  for  home. 

One  bright  June  day  they  were  expected  back.  Lionel 
Dacre  had  driven  to  the  station.  Lady  Earle  had  laid 
aside  her  mourning-dress,  and  sat  anxiously  awaiting  her 
son.  She  wished  the  home-coming  were  over,  and  that 
they  had  all  settled  down  to  the  new  life. 

Her  wish  was  soon  gratified.  Once  again  she  gazed 
upon  the  face  of  her  only  and  beloved  son.  He  was  little 
changed — somewhat  sunburned,  it  was  true  ;  but  there  was 
less  of  the  old  pride  and  sternness,  a  kindly  smile  playing 
round  his  lips.  There  was,  too,  a  shade  of  sadness  that 
plainly  would  never  leave  him  ;  Lord  Earle  could  never 
forget  his  lost  child. 

Lady  Helena  looked  anxiously  at  Dora, but  there  was  no 


258  DORA    THORNE.' 

cause  for  fear.  The  rosy,  dimpled  beauty  of  youth  had 
passed  away,  but  a  staid  dignity  had  taken  its  place.  She 
looked  a  graceful  amiable  woman,  with  eyes  of  wondrous 
beauty  thickly  veiled  by  long  lashes,  and  a  wealth  of  rip- 
pling black  hair.  Lady  Helena  thought  her  far  more 
beautiful  now  than  when  the  coy  smiles  and  dimples  had 
been  the  chief  charm.  She  admired,  too,  the  perfect  and 
easy  grace  with  which  Dora  fell  at  once  into  her  proper 
place  as  mistress  of  that  vast  establishment. 

The  pretty,  musical  voice  was  trained  and  softened;  the 
delicate,  refined  accent  retained  no  trace  of  provincialism. 
Everything  about  Dora  pleased  the  eye  and  gratified  the 
taste;  the  girlish  figure  had  grown  matronly  and  dignified; 
the  sweet  face  had  in  it  a  tinge  of  sadness  one  may  often 
see  in  the  face  of  a  mother  who  has  lost  a  child.  Lady 
Helena,  fastidious  and  critical,  could  find  no  fault  with  her 
son's  wife. 

She  welcomed  her  warmly,  giving  up  to  her,  in  her  own 
graceful  way,  all  rule  and  authority.  Helping  her  if  in 
any  way  she  required  it,  but  never  interfering,  she  made 
Dora  respected  by  the  love  and  esteem  she  always  evinced 
for  her. 

But  it  was  on  Lillian's  face  that  Lady  Helena  gazed  most 
earnestly.  The  pallor  of  sickness  had  given  way  to  a  rosy 
and  exquisite  bloom.  The  fair,  sweet  face  in  its  calm  love- 
liness seemed  to  her  perfect,  the  violet  eyes  were  full  of 
light.  Looking  at  her,  Lady  Helena  believed  there  were 
years  of  life  in  store  for  Ronald's  only  child. 

There  was  much  to  talk  about.  Lord  Earle  told  his 
mother  how  Hubert  Airlie  had  gone  home  to  Lynnton,  un- 
able to  endure  the  sight  of  Earlescourt.  He  had  never  re- 
gained his  spirits.  In  the  long  years  to  come  it  was  possi- 
ble, added  Ronald,  that  Lord  Airlie  might  marry,  for  the 
sake^  of  his  name;  but  if  ever  the  heart  of  living  man  lay 
buried  in  a  woman's  grave,  his  was  with  the  loved,  lost 
Beatrice. 

Lionel  Dacre  knew  he  had  done  wisely  and  well  to  have 
the  bed  of  the  lake  filled  up.  In  the  morning  he  saw  how 
each  member  of  the  family  shrunk  from  going  out  into  the 
grounds.  He  asked  Lord  Earle  to  accompany  him,  and 
then  the  master  of  Earlescourt  saw  that  the  deep,  cruel 
water  no  longer  shimmered  amid  the  trees. 

Lionel  let  him  bring  his  wife  and  daughter  to  see  what 


DORA  THORNE.  259 

had  been  done  ;  and  they  turned  to  the  author  of  it  with 
grateful  eyes,  thanking  him  for  the  kind  thought  which 
had  spared  their  feelings.  Green  trees  flourished  now  on 
the  spot  where  the  water  had  glistened  in  the  sun  ;  birds 
sung  in  their  branches,  green  grass  and  ferns  grew  round 
their  roots. 

Yet  among  the  superstitious  strange  stories  were  told. 
They  said  that  the  wind,  when  it  rustled  among  those  trees, 
wailed  with  a  cry  like  that  of  one  drowning,  that  the  leaves 
shivered  and  trembled  as  they  did  on  no  other  branches ; 
that  the  stirring  of  them  resembled  deep-drawn  sighs. 
They  said  flowers  would  never  grow  in  the  thick  grass,  and 
that  the  antlered  deer  shunned  the  spot. 

As  much  as  possible  the  interior  arrangements  of  Earles- 
court  had  been  altered.  Lillian  had  rooms  prepared  for 
her  in  the  other  wing;  those  that  had  belonged  to  her  hap- 
less sister  were  left  undisturbed.  Lady  Dora  kept  the  keys; 
it  was  known  when  she  had  been  visiting  them;  the  dark 
eyes  bore  traces  of  weeping. 

Beatrice  had  not  been  forgotten  and  never  would  be. 
Her  name  was  on  Lillian's  lips  a  hundred  times  each  day. 
They  had  been  twin  sisters,  and  it  always  seemed  to  her 
that  part  of  herself  lay  in  the  church-yard  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill. 

Caspar  Laurence  had  gone  abroad — he  could  not  endure 
the  sight  or  name  of  home.  Lady  Laurence  hoped  that 
time  would  heal  a  wound  that  nothing  else  could  touch. 
When,  after  some  years  he  did  return,  it  was  seen  that  his 
sorrow  would  last  for  life.  He  never  married — he  never 
cared  for  the  name  of  any  woman  save  that  of  Beatrice 

Earle. 

******* 

A  week  after  their  return,  Lillian  Earle  stood  one  even- 
ing watching  from  the  deep  oriel  window  the  sun's  last  rays 
upon  the  flowers.  Lionel  joined  her,  and  she  knew  from 
his  face  that  he  had  come  to  ask  the  question  she  had  de- 
clined to  answer  before. 

"  I  have  done  penance,  Lillian,"  he  said,  "if  ever  man 
has.  For  two  years  I  have  devoted  time,  care,  and  thought 
to  those  you  love,  for  your  sake;  for  two  years  I  have  tried 
night  and  day  to  learn,  for  your  sake,  to  become  a  better 
man.  Do  not  visit  my  fault  too  heavily  upon  me.  I  am 
hasty  and  passionate — I  doubted  you  who  were  true  and 


360  DORA   THORNE.  , 

pure;  but,  Lillian,  in  the  loneliness  and  sorrow  of  these 
two  years  I  have  suffered  bitterly  for  my  sin.  I  know  you 
are  above  all  coquetry.  Tell  me,  Lillian,  will  you  be  my 
wife?" 

She  gave  him  the  answer  he  longed  to  hear,  and  Lionel 
Dacre  went  straight  to  Lord  Earle.  He  was  delighted — it 
was  the  very  marriage  upon  which  he  had  set  his  heart 
years  before.  Lady  Dora  was  delighted,  too;  she  smiled 
more  brightly  over  it  than  she  had  smiled  since  the  early 
days  of  her  married  life.  Lady  Helena  rejoiced  when  they 
told  her,  although  it  was  not  unexpected  news  to  her,  for 
she  had  been  Lionel's  confidante  during  Lillian's  illness. 

There  was  no  reason  why  the  marriage  should  be  delayed; 
the  June  roses  were  blooming  then,  and  it  was  arranged 
that  it  should  take  place  in  the  month  of  August. 

There  were  to  be  no  grand  festivities — no  one  had  heart 
for  them;  the  wedding  was  to  be  quiet,  attended  only  by  a 
few  friends;  and  Lord  Earle  succeeded  in  obtaining  a 
promise  from  Lionel  which  completely  set  his  heart  at  rest. 
It  was  that  he  would  never  seek  another  home— that  ho 
and  Lillian  would  consent  to  live  at  Earlescourt.  Her 
father  could  not  endure  the  thought  of  parting  with  her. 

**  It  will  be  your  home,  Lionel,"  he  said,  **  in  the  course 
of  after-years.  Make  it  so  now.  We  shall  be  one  family, 
and  I  think  a  happy  one." 

So  it  was  arranged,  much  to  everybody's  delight.  A  few 
days  before  the  wedding  took  place,  a  letter  came  which 
seemed  ta  puzzle  Lord  Earle  very  much.  He  folded  it 
without  speaking,  but,  when  breakfast  was  over,  he  drew 
his  wife's  hand  within  his  own. 

"  Dora,"  he  said,  "  there  will  never  be  any  secrets  be* 
tween  us  for  the  future.  1  want  you  to  read  this  letter— 
it  is  from  Valentine  Oharteris  that  was,  Princess  Borgea 
that  is.  She  is  in  England,  at  Greenoke,  and  asks  permis- 
sion to  come  to  Lillian's  wedding;  the  answer  must  rest 
with  you,  dear." 

She  took  the  letter  from  him  and  read  it  through;  th« 
noble  heart  of  the  woman  spoke  in  every  line,  yet  in  some 
vague  way  Dora  dreaded  to  look  again  upon  the  calm, 
grand  beauty  of  Valentine's  face. 

"  Have  no  fear,  Dora,  in  saying  just  what  you  think," 
said  her  husband;  **  I  would  not  have  our  present  happi- 
ness clouded  for  the  world*  One  word  will  suffice — if  you 


DORA    THORNE. 

do  not  quite  like  the  thought,  i  will  write  to  her  and  ask 
her  to  defer  the  visit." 

Bat  Dora  would  not  be  outdone  in  magnanimity.  With 
resolute  force,  she  cast  from  her  every  unworthy  thought. 

**Let  her  come,  Ronald,"  she  said,  raising  her  clear, 
dark  eyes  to  his.  "  I  shall  be  pleased  to  see  her.  I  owe 
her  some  amends. " 

He  was  unfeignedly  pleased,  and  so  was  every  one  else. 
Lady  Helena  alone  felt  some  little  doubts  as  to  Dora's 
capability  of  controlling  herself. 

The  Princess  Borgezi  was  to  come  alone;  she  had  nob 
said  at  what  hour  they  might  expect  her. 

Lady  Dora  had  hardly  understood  why  her  thoughts 
went  back  so  constantly  to  her  lost  child.  Beatrice  had 
loved  the  beautiful,  gracious  woman  who  was  coming  to 
visit  them.  It  may  have  been  that  which  prompted  her, 
on  the  day  before  Lillian's  marriage,  when  the  house  was 
alive  with  the  bustle  and  turmoil  of  preparation,  to  go  to 
the  silent,  solitary  rooms  where  her  daughter's  voice  had 
once  made  sweetest  music. 

She  was  there  alone  for  some  time;  it  was  Lord  Earle 
who  found  her,  and  tried  to  still  her  bitter  weeping. 

"  It  is  useless,  Ronald,"  she  cried;  **  I  can  not  help  ask- 
ing why  my  bright,  beautiful  darling  should  belying  there. 
It  is  only  two  years  since  a  wedding-wreath  was  made  for 
her. " 

Nothing  would  comfort  her  but  a  visit  to  her  daughter'8 
grave.  It  was  a  long  walk,  but  she  preferred  taking  it 
Ijone.  She  said  she  should  feel  better  after  it  They 
yielded  to  her  wish.  Before  she  had  quitted  the  house 
many  minutes,  the  Princess  Borgezi  arrived. 

There  was  no  restraint  in  Ronald's  greeting.  He  was 
heartily  glad  to  see  her — glad  to  look  once  more  on  the 
lovely  Grecian  face  that  had  seemed  to  him,  vears  ago,  the 
only  model  for  Queen  Guinivere.  They  talked  for  a  few 
minutes;  then  Valentine,  turning  to  him,  said: 

**  Now  let  me  see  Lady  Dora.     My  visit  is  reall  v  to  her. " 

They  told  her  whither  she  had  gone;  and  Lady  Helena 
whispered  something  to  her  which  brought  tears  to  Valen- 
tine's eyes. 

"  Yes,"  she  said;  "  1  will  follow  her.  I  will  aak  her  to 
kiss  me  over  her  daughter's  grave." 


262  DORA  THOKNE. 

Some  one  went  with  her  to  point  out  the  way,  but  Val* 
entine  entered  the  church-yard  alone. 

Through  the  thick  green  foliage  she  saw  the  shining  of 
the  white  marble  cross,  and  the  dark  dress  of  Dora,  who 
knelt  by  the  grave. 

She  went  up  to  her.  Her  footsteps,  falling  noiselessly 
on  the  soft  grass,  were  unheard  by  the  weeping  mother. 

Valentine  knelt  by  her  side.  Dora,  looking  up,  saw  the 
calm  face  beaming  down  upon  her,  ineffable  tenderness  in 
the  clear  eyes.  She  felt  the  clasp  of  Valentine's  arms, 
and  heard  a  sweet  voice  whisper  : 

"  Dora,  I  have  followed  you  here  to  ask  you  to  try  to 
l»ve  me,  and  to  pardon  me  for  my  share  in  your  unhappy 
past.  For  the  love  of  your  dead,  who  loved  me,  bury 
here  all  difference  and  all  dislike." 

She  could  not  refuse.  For  the  first  time  Lord  Earle's 
wife  laid  her  head  upon  that  noble  woman's  shoulder  and 
wept  away  her  sorrow,  while  Valentine  soothed  her  with 
loving  words. 

Over  the  grave  of  a  child  the  two  women  were  recon- 
ciled— all  dislike,  jealousy,  and  envy  died  away  forever. 
Peace  and  love  took  their  place. 

In  the  after-time  there  was  something  remarkable  in 
Dora's  reverential  love  for  Valentine*  Lord  Earle  often 
said  that  in  his  turn  he  was  jealous  of  her.  His  wife  had 
no  higher  ideal,  no  truer  friend  than  the  Princess  Borgezi. 

The  wedding-day  dawned  at  last  ;  and  for  a  time  all 
trace  of  sadness  was  hidden  away.  Lord  Earle  would 
have  it  so.  He  said  that  that  which  should  be  the  happi- 
est day  of  Lillian's  life  must  not  be  clouded.  Such  sad 
thoughts  of  the  lost  Beatrice  as  came  into  the  minds  of 
those  who  had  loved  her  remained  unspoken. 

The  summer  sun  never  shone  upon  a  more  lovely  bride, 
nor  upon  a  fairer  scene  than  that  wedding.  The  pretty 
country  church  was  decorated  with  flowers  and  crowded 
with  spectators. 

Side  by  side  at  the  altar  stood  Lady  Dora  Earle  and 
Valentine.  People  said  afterward  they  could  not  decide 
whom  they  admired  most — Lady  Helena's  stately  magni- 
ficence, Dora's  sweet,  simple  elegance,  or  the  Princess 
Borgezi's  statuesque  Grecian  beauty. 

Lord  Earle  had  prepared  a  surprise  for  Dora.  When  the 
little  wedding-party  returned  from  the  church,  the  first  to 


DOEA  THORNE.  263 

greet  them  was  Stephen  Thorne,  now  a  white-headed  old 
man,  and  his  wife.  The  first  to  show  them  all  honor  and 
respect  were  Lord  Earle  and  his  mother.  Valentine  was 
charmed  with  their  homely  simplicity. 

For  months  after  they  returned  to  Knutsford  the  old 
people  talked  of  "  the  lady  with  the  beautiful  face,  who 
had  been  so  kind  and  gracious  to  them." 

Lord  Airlie  did  not  attend  the  wedding,  but  he  had 
urged  Lionel  to  spend  his  honeymoon  at  Lynnton  Hall, 
and  Lillian  had  willingly  consented. 

So  they  drove  away  when  the  wedding-breakfast  was 
over,  a  hundred  wishes  for  their  happiness  following  them, 
loving  words  ringing  after  them.  Relatives,  friends,  and 
servants  had  crowded  round  them  ;  and  Lillian's  courage 
gave  way  at  last.  She  turned  to  Lionel,  as  though  pray- 
ing him  to  shorten  their  time  of  parting. 

"  Heaven  bless  you,  my  darling  !"  whispered  Dora  to 
her  child.  "  And  mind,  never — come  what  may — never  be 
jealous  of  your  husband." 

"Good-bye,  Lionel,"  said  Lord  Earle,  clasping  the  true, 
honest  hand  in  his;  "and,  if  ever  my  little  darling  here 
tries  you,  be  patient  with  her." 

The  story  of  a  life-time  was  told  in  these  two  behests. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

TEN  years  had  passed  since  the  wedding-bells  chimed 
for  the  marriage  of  Lillian  Earle.  New  life  had  come  to 
Earlescourt.  Children's  happy  voices  made  music  there  ; 
the  pattering  of  little  feet  sounded  in  the  large,  stately 
rooms  ;  pretty,  rosy  faces  made  light  and  sunshine. 

The  years  had  passed  asswiftly  and  peacefully  as  a  happy 
dream.  One  event  had  happened  which  had  saddened  Lord 
Earle  for  a  few  days — the  death  of  the  pretty,  coquettish 
Countess  Rosali.  She  had  not  forgotten  him  ;  there  came 
to  him  from  her  sorrowing  husband  a  ring  which  she  had 
asked  might  be  given  to  him. 

Caspar  Laurence  was  still  abroad,  and  there  was  appar- 
ently no  likelihood  of  his  return.  The  Princess  Borgezi, 
with  her  husband  and  children,  had  paid  several  visits  to 
the  Hall.  Valentine  had  one  pretty  little  daughter,  upon 
whom  Lionel's  son  was  supposed  to  look  with  most  affec- 


264  DOEA  THOENE. 

tion.  She  had  other  daughters — the  eldest,  a  tall,  grace- 
ful girl,  inherited  her  father's  Italian  face  and  dark,dreamy 
eyes.  Strange  to  say,  she  was  not  unlike  Beatrice.  It  may 
have  been  that  circumstance  which  first  directed  Lord 
Airlie's  attention  to  her.  He  met  her  at  Earlescourt,  and 
paid  her  more  attention  than  he  had  paid  to  any  one  since 
he  had  loved  so  unhappily  years  before. 

No  one  was  much  surprised  when  he  married  her.  And 
Helena  Borgezi  made  a  good  wife.  She  knew  his  story,  and 
how  much  of  his  heart  lay  in  the  grave  of  his  lost  love. 
He  was  kind,  gentle,  and  affectionate  to  her,  and  Helena 
valued  his  thoughtful,  faithful  attachment  more  than  she 
would  have  valued  the  deepest  and  most  passionate  love 
of  another  man. 

One  room  at  Lynnton  was  never  unlocked;  strange  feet 
never  entered  it;  curious  eyes  never  looked  round  it.  It 
was  the  pretty  boudoir  built,  but  never  furnished,  for 
Hubert  Airiie's  first  love. 

Time  softened  his  sorrow;  his  fair,  gentle  wife  was  de- 
voted to  him,  blooming  children  smiled  around  him  ;  but 
he  never  forgot  Beatrice.  In  his  dreams,  at  times,  Helena 
heard  her  name  on  his  lips;  but  she  was  not  jealous  of  the 
dead.  No  year  passed  in  which  she  did  not  visit  the  grave 

where  Beatrice  Earle  slept  her  last  long  sleep. 

*****  * 

Dora  seemed  to  grow  young  again  with  Lillian's  chil- 
dren. She  nursed  and  tended  them.  Lady  Helena,  with 
zealous  eyes,  looked  after  Bertrand,  the  future  lord  of 
Earlescourt,  a  brave,  noble  boy,  his  father's  pride  and 
Lillian's  torment  and  delight,  who  often  said  he  was  richer 
than  any  other  lad  in  the  country,  for  he  had  three 

mothers,  while  others  had  but  one. 

*****  * 

The  sun  was  setting  over  the  fair  broad  lands  of  Earles- 
court, the  western  sky  was  all  aflame  ;  the  flowers  were 
thirsting  for  the  soft  dew  which  had  just  begun  to  fall. 

Out  in  the  rose-garden,  where  long  ago  a  love-story  had 
been  told,  were  standing  a  group  that  an  artist  would  have 
been  delighted  to  sketch. 

Lionel  had  some  choice  roses  in  bloom,  and  after  dinner 
the  whole  party  had  gone  out  to  see  them.  Lady  Helena 
Earle  was  seated  on  the  garden  chair  whereon  Beatrice  had 


DORA    THORNE.  860 

once  sat  listening  to  the  words  which  had  gladdened  her 
brief  life.  A  number  of  fair  children  played  around  her. 

Looking  on  them  with  pleased  eyes  was  a  gentle,  grace* 
f  ul  lady.  Her  calm,  sweet  face  had  a  story  in  it,  the  won- 
drous dark  eyes  had  in  them  a  shadow  as  of  some  sorrow 
not  yet  lived  down.  Lady  Dora  Earle  was  happy;  the 
black  clouds  had  passed  away.  She  was  her  husband's 
best  friend,  his  truest  counselor;  and  Ronald  had  forgotten 
that  she  was  ever  spoken  of  as  **  lowly  born."  The  dig- 
nity of  her  character,  acquired  by  long  years  of  stern  disci- 
pline, asserted  itself;  no  one  in  the  whole  country-side  was 
more  loved  or  respected  than  Lady  Dora  Earle. 

Ronald,  Lord  Earle,  was  lying  on  the  grass  at  his  wife's 
feet.  He  looked  older,  and  the  luxuriant  hair  was  threaded 
with  silver;  but  there  was  peace  and  calm  in  his  face. 

He  laughed  at  Lillian  and  her  husband  conversing  so 
anxiously  over  the  roses. 

**  They  are  lovers  yet/'  he  said  to  Dora;  and  she  glanced 
smilingly  at  them. 

The  words  were  true.  Ten  years  married,  they  were 
lovers  yet  There  was  gentle  forbearance  on  one  side,  an 
earnest  wish  to  do  right  on  the  other.  Lillian  Dacre  never 
troubled  her  head  about  "  woman's  rights;"  she  had  no 
idea  of  trying  to  fill  her  husband's  place;  if  her  opinion  on 
voting  was  asked,  the  chances  were  that  she  would  smile 
and  say,  "  Lionel  manages  all  those  matters."  Yet  in  her 
own  kingdom  she  reigned  supreme;  her  actions  were  full 
of  wisdom,  her  words  were  full  of  kindly  thought  The 
quiet,  serene  beauty  of  her  youth  had  developed  into  that 
of  magnificent  womanhood.  The  fair,  spirituelle  face  was 
peerless  in  her  husband's  eyes.  There  was  no  night  or  day 
curing  which  Lionel  Dacre  did  not  thank  Heaven  for  that 
crown  of  all  great  gifts,  a  good  and  gentle  wife. 

There  was  a  stir  among  the  children;  a  tall,  dark  gentle- 
man was  seen  crossing  the  lawn,  and  Lionel  cried:  Here 
is  Caspar  Laurence  with  his  arms  full  of  toys — those  chil- 
dren will  be  completely  spoiled!" 

The  little  ones  rushed  forward,  and  Bertrand,  in  hit 
hurry,  fell  over  a  pretty  child  with  large  dark  eyes  and 
dark  hair.  Lord  Earle  jumped  up  and  caught  her  in  his 
arms. 

"  Bertie,  my  boy,"  he  said,  "  always  be  kind  to  little 
Beatrice!"  The  child  clasped  her  arms  round  his  neck. 


266  DORA  THOKNE. 

He  kissed  the  dark  eyes  and  murmured  to  himself,  "  Poor 
little  Beatrice  !" 

The  summer  wind  that  played  among  the  roses,  lifting 
the  golden,  rippling  hair  from  Lillian's  forehead  and  toss- 
ing her  little  girl's  curls  into  Lord  Earle's  face,  was  sing- 
ing a  sweet,  low  requiem  among  the  trees  that  shaded  the 
grave  of  Beatrice  Earle. 


THE  END. 


The  Red-Headed  League. 

BY  A.  CONAN  DOYLB. 


The  Red-Headed    League. 


I  HAD  called  upon  my  friend  Mr.  Sherlock  Holmes 
one  day  in  the  autumn  of  last  year  and  found  him  deep 
in  conversation  with  a  very  stout,  florid-faced,  elderly 
gentleman,  with  fiery  red  hair.  With  an  apology  for 
my  intrusion,  I  was  about  to  withdraw,  when  Holmes 
pulled  me  abruptly  into  the  room  and  closed  the  door 
behind  me. 

"  You  could  not  possibly  have  come  at  a  better  time, 
my  dear  Watson,"  he  said,  cordially.  "  This  gentleman, 
Mr.  Wilson,  has  been  my  partner  and  helper  in  many 
of  my  most  successful  cases,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that 
he  will  be  of  the  utmost  use  to  me  in  yours  also." 

The  stout  gentleman  half  rose  from  his  chair  and 
gave  a  bob  of  greeting,  with  a  quick  little  questioning 
glance  from  his  small,  fat-encircled  eyes. 

"  Try  the  settee,"  said  Holmes,  relapsing  into  his  arm- 
chair and  putting  his  finger  tips  together,  as  was  his 
custom  when  in  judicial  moods.  "  I  know,  my  dear 
Watson,  that  you  share  my  love  of  all  that  is  bix.irre 
and  outside  the  conventions  and  humdrum  routine  of 
everyday  life.  Now,  Mr.  Jabez  Wilson  here  has  been 
good  enough  to  call  upon  me  this  morning,  and  to  begin 
a  narrative  which  promises  to  be  one  of  the  most  sin- 
gular which  I  have  listened  to  for  some  time.  Perhaps, 
Mr.  WiUon,  you  would  have  the  great  kindness  to 

3 


4  THE  RED-HEADED   LEAGUE. 

recommence  your  narration.  I  ask  you  not  merely  be- 
cause my  friend,  Dr.  Watson,  has  not  heard  the  opening 
part,  but  also  because  the  peculiar  nature  of  the  story 
makes  me  anxious  to  have  every  possible  detail  from 
your  lips." 

The  portly  client  puffed  out  his  chest  with  an  appear- 
ance of  some  little  pride  and  pulled  a  dirty  and 
wrinkled  newspaper  from  the  inside  pocket  of  his  great- 
coat. As  he  glanced  down  the  advertisement  column, 
with  his  head  thrust  forward  and  the  paper  flattened 
out  upon  his  knee,  I  took  a  good  look  at  the  man  and 
endeavored,  after  the  fashion  of  my  companion,  to  read 
the  indications  which  might  be  presented  by  his  dress 
or  appearance. 

I  did  not  gain  very  much,  however,  by  my  inspection. 
Our  visitor  bore  every  mark  of  being  an  average  com- 
monplace British  tradesman — obese,  pompous  and  slow. 
He  wore  rather  baggy  gray  shepherd's  plaid  trousers, 
a  not  over-clean  black  frock  coat,  unbuttoned  in  the 
front,  and  a  drab  waistcoat,  with  a  heavy  brassy  Albert 
chain  and  a  square  hit  of  metal  dangling  down  as  an 
ornament.  A  frayed  top  hat  and  a  faded  brown  overcoat 
with  wrinkled  velvet  collar  lay  upon  a  chair  beside  him. 
Altogether,  look  as  I  would,  there  was  nothing  remark- 
able about  the  man,  saving  his  blazing  red  head  and  the 
expression  of  extreme  chagrin  and  discontent  upon  his 
features. 

"  Can  you  find  the  advertisement,  Mr.  Wilson  ? " 
asked  Holmes. 

"Yes,  I  have  got  it  now,"  he  answered,  with  his 
thick,  red  finger  planted  half-way  down  the  column. 
"  Here  it  is.  This  is  what  began  it  all.  You  just  read 
it  for  yourself,  sir." 

I  took  th~  ^aper  from  him  and  read  as  follows  : 


THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE.  5 

To  THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE  :  On  account  of  the 
bequest  of  the  late  Hezekiah  Hopkins,  of  Lebanon, 
Penn.,  U.  S.  A.,  there  is  now  another  vacancy  open, 
which  entitles  a  member  of  the  League  to  a  salary  of 
four  pounds  a  week  for  purely  nominal  services.  All 
red-headed  men  who  are  sound  in  body  and  mind,  and 
above  the  age  of  twenty-one  years,  are  eligible.  Apply 
in  person  on  Monday,  at  eleven  o'clock,  to  Duncan  Ross, 
at  the  offices  of  the  League,  7  Pope's  Court,  Fleet 
Street. 

"  What  on  earth  does  this  mean?  "  I  ejaculated,  after 
I  had  twice  read  over  the  extraordinary  announcement. 

Holmes  chuckled  and  wriggled  in  his  chair,  as  was 
his  habit  when  in  high  spirits.  *'  It  is  a  little  off  the 
beaten  track,  isn't  it  ?  "  said  he.  "  And  now,  Mr.  Wil- 
son, off  you  go  at  scratch,  and  tell  us  all  about  yourself, 
your,  household  and  the  effect  which  this  advertisement 
had  upon  your  fortunes.  You  will  first  make  a  note, 
doctor,  of  the  paper  and  date." 

"  It  is  the  '  Morning  Chronicle'  of  April  27,  1890— 
just  two  months  ago." 

"  Very  good.     Now,  Mr.  Wilson  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  is  just  as  I  have  been  telling  you,  Mr.  Sher- 
lock Holmes,"  said  Jabez  Wilson,  mopping  his  forehead. 
"  I  have  a  small  pawnbroker's  business  at  Coburg  Square, 
near  the  city.  It's  not  a  very  large  affair,  and  of  late 
years  it  has  not  done  more  than  just  give  me  a  living. 
I  used  to  be  able  to  keep  two  assistants,  but  now  I  only 
keep  one  ;  and  I  would  have  a  job  to  pay  him  but  that 
he  is  willing  to  come  for  half  wages,  so  as  to  learn  the 
business." 

"  What  is  the  name  of  this  obliging  youth  ?  "  asked 
Mr.  Sherlock  Holmes. 

"  His  name  is  Vincent  Spaulding,  and  he's  not  such 
a  youth,  either.  It's  hard  to  say  his  age.  I  should  not 


6  THE  RED-HEADED   LEAGUE. 

wish  a  smarter  assistant,  Mr.  Holmes  ;  and  I  know  very 
well  that  he  could  better  himself  and  earn  twice  what 
I  am  able  to  give  him.  But  after  all,  if  he  is  satisfied, 
why  should  I  put  ideas  into  his  head  ?  He  has  his 
faults,  too.  Never  was  such  a  fellow  for  photography. 
Snapping  away  with  a~camera  when  he  ought  to  be 
improving  his  mind,  and  then  diving  down  into  the 
cellar  like  a  rabbit  into  its  hole  to  develop  his  pictures." 

"  He  is  still  with  you,  I  presume?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  He  and  a  girl  of  fourteen,  who  does  a  bit 
of  simple  cooking  and  keeps  the  place  clean — that's  all 
I  have  in  the  house,  for  I  am  a  widower,  and  never  had 
any  family.  We  live  very  quietly,  sir,  the  three  of  us ; 
and  we  keep  a  roof  over  our  heads  and  pay  our  debts, 
if  we  do  nothing  more. 

"  The  first  thing  that  put  us  out  was  that  advertise- 
ment. Spaulding,  he  came  down  into  the  office  just 
this  day  eight  weeks  with  this  very  paper  in  his  hand, 
and  he  says : 

"  '  I  wish  to  the  Lord,  Mr.  Wilson,  that  I  was  a  red- 
headed man.' 

"  '  Why  that  ?  "  I  asks. 

"'Why?'  says  he,  'here's  another  vacancy  on  the 
League  of  the  Red-Headed  Men.  It's  worth  quite  a 
little  fortune  to  any  man  who  gets  it.  If  my  hair  would 
only  change  color,  here's  a  nice  little  crib  all  ready  for 
me  to  step  into.' 

"  '  Why,  what  is  that,  then  ?  '  I  asked.  You  see,  Mr. 
Holmes,  I  am  a  very  stay-at-home  man ;  and  as  my 
business  comes  to  me  instead  of  my  having  to  go  to  it, 
I  was  often  weeks  on  end  without  putting  my  foot  over 
the  doormat.  In  that  way  I  didn't  know  much  of  what 
was  going  on  outside,  and  I  was  always  glad  of  a  bit  of 
Hews. 


THE  RED-HEADED   LEAGUE.  7 

"  '  Have  you  never  heard  of  the  League  of  Red-Head- 
ed Men  ?  '  he  asked,  with  his  eyes  open.  '  Why,  I  won- 
der at  that,  for  you  are  eligible  yourself  for  one  of  the 
vacancies.' 

"'And  what  are  they  worth?'  I  asked. 

"  '  Oh,  merely  a  couple  of  hundred  a  year  ;  but  the 
work  is  slight:  and  it  need  not  interfere  very  much  with 
one's  other  occupations.' 

"  Well,  you  can  easily  think  that  that  made  me  prick 
up  my  ears.  '  Tell  me  all  about  it  ?  '  said  I. 

"  '  Well,'  said  he,  showing  me  the  advertisement, 
*  you  can  see  for  yourself  that  the  League  has  a  vacan- 
cy, and  there  is  the  address  where  you  should  apply  for 
particulars.  As  far  as  I  can  make  out,  the  League  was 
founded  by  an  American  millionaire,  Ezekiah  Hopkins, 
who  was  very  peculiar  in  his  ways.  He  was  himself 
red-headed,  and  he  had  a  great  sympathy  for  all 
red-headed  men  ;  so  when  he  died  it  was  found  he  had 
left  his  enormous  fortune  in  the  hands  of  trustees,  with 
instructions  to  apply  the  interest  to  the  providing  of 
easy  berths  to  men  whose  hair  is  of  that  color.  From 
all  I  hear  it  is  splendid  pay  and  very  little  to  do.' 

"  '  But,'  said  I,  '  there  would  be  millions  of  red-head- 
ed men  who  would  apply.' 

" '  Not  so  many  as  you  might  think,'  he  answered. 
'  You  see,  it  is  really  confined  to  Londoners  and  to 
grown  men.  This  American  had  started  from  London 
when  he  was  young,  and  he  wanted  to  do  the  old  town 
a  good  turn.  Then,  again,  I  have  heard  it  is  of  no  use 
your  applying  if  your  hair  is  light  red  or  dark  red,  or 
anything  but  real  bright,  blazing,  fiery  red.' 

"  Now,  it  is  a  fact,  gentlemen,  as  you  may  see  foi* 
yourselves,  that  my  hair  is  of  a  very  full  and  rich  tint  ; 
so  it  seemed  to  me  that,  if  there  was  to  be  any  compe- 


8  THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE. 

tion  in  the  matter,  I  stood  as  good  a  chance  as  any  man 
that  I  had  ever  met.  Vincent  Spaulding  seemed  to 
know  so  much  about  it  that  I  thought  he  might  prove 
useful,  so  I  just  ordered  him  to  put  up  the  shutters  for 
the  day,  and  to  come  right  away  with  me.  He  was 
very  willing  to  have  a  holiday,  so  we  shut  the  business 
up  and  started  off  for  the  address  that  was  given  us  in 
the  advertisement. 

"  I  never  hope  to  see  such  a  sight  as  that  again,  Mr. 
Holmes.  From  north,  south,  east  and  west,  every 
man  who  had  a  shade  of  red  in  his  hair  had  tramped 
into  the  city  to  answer  the  advertisement.  Fleet  Street 
was  choked  with  red-headed  men,  and  Pope's  Court 
looked  like  a  coster's  orange  barrow.  When  I  saw  how 
many  were  waiting  I  could  have  given  up  in  despair, 
but  Spaulding  would  not  hear  of  it.  How  he  did  it  I 
could  not  imagine,  but  he  pushed  and  pulled  and  butted 
until  he  got  me  through  the  crowd,  and  right  up  to  the 
steps  which  led  to  the  office.  There  was  a  double  stream 
upon  the  stair,  some  going  up  in  hope  and  some  com- 
ing back  dejected  ;  but  we  wedged  in  as  well  as  we  could, 
and  soon  found  ourselves  in  the  office." 

"  Your  experience  had  been  a  most  entertaining  one," 
remarked  Holmes,  as  his  client  paused  and  refreshed 
his  memory  with  a  huge  pinch  of  snuff.  "  Pray  con- 
tinue your  very  interesting  statement." 

"  There  was  nothing  in  the  office  but  a  couple  of 
wooden  chairs  and  a  deal  table,  behind  which  sat  a 
small  man  with  a  head  that  was  even  redder  than  mine. 
He  said  a  few  words  to  each  candidate  as  he  came  up, 
and  then  he  always  managed  to  find  some  fault  in  them 
which  would  disqualify  them.  Getting  a  vacancy  did 
not  seem  to  be  such  a  very  easy  matter,  after  all.  How- 
ever, when  our  turn  came,  the  little  man  was  more  favor- 


THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE.  9 

able  to  me  than  to  any  of  the  others  and  closed  the 
door  as  we  entered,  so  that  he  might  have  a  private 
word  with  us. 

"  '  This  is  Mr.  Jabez  Wilson/  said  my  assistant,  '  and 
he  is  willing  to  fill  a  vacancy  in  the  League.' 

"  '  And  he  is  admirably  suited  for  it,'  the  other  an- 
swered.  '  He  has  every  requirement.  I  cannot  recall 
when  I  have  seen  anything  so  fine.'  He  took  a  step 
backward,  cocked  his  head  on  one  side,  and  gazed  at 
my  hair  until  I  felt  quite  bashful.  Then  suddenly  he 
plunged  forward,  wrung  my  hand  and  congratulated 
me  warmly  on  my  success. 

"'  It  would  be  injustice  to  hesitate,'  said  he.  'You 
will,  however,  I  am  sure,  excuse  me  for  taking  an  ob- 
vious precaution.'  With  that  he  seized  my  hair  in  both 
hands  and  tugged  until  I  yelled  with  the  pain.  '  There 
is  water  in  your  eyes/  said  he,  as  he  released  me.  '  I 
perceive  all  is  as  it  should  be.  But  we  have  to  be  care- 
ful,  for  we  have  twice  been  deceived  by  wigs  and  once 
by  paint.  I  could  tell  you  tales  of  cobbler's  wax  which 
would  disgust  you  with  human  nature.'  He  stepped 
over  to  the  window  and  shouted  through  it  at  the  top 
of  his  voice  that  the  vacancy  was  filled.  A  groan  of 
disappointment  came  up  from  below,  and  the  folk  all 
trooped  away  in  different  directions,  until  there  was  not 
a  red  head  to  be  seen  except  my  own  and  that  of  the 
manager. 

"  '  My  name/  said  he, '  is  Mr.  Duncan  Ross,  and  I  am 
myself  one  of  the  pensioners  upon  the  fund  left  by  our 
noble  benefactor.  When  shall  you  be  able  to  enter 
upon  your  new  duties?  ' 

"  'Well,  it  is  a  little  awkward,  for  I  have  a  business 
already/  said  I. 

"  '  Oh,  never  mind  about  that,  Mr.  Wilson/  said  Vin- 


io  THE  RED-HEADED   LEAGUE. 

cent  Spaulding.  '  I  shall  be  able  to  look  after  that  for 
you.' 

"  '  What  would  be  the  hours  ? '  I  asked. 

"  '  Ten  to  two.' 

"  Now,  a  pawnbroker's  business  is  mostly  done  of  an 
evening,  Mr.  Holmes,  especially  Thursday  and  Friday 
evenings,  which  is  just  before  pay  day,  so  it  would  suit 
me  very  well  to  earn  a  little  in  the  mornings.  Besides, 
I  knew  that  my  assistant  was  a  good  man,  and  that  he 
would  see  to  anything  that  turned  up. 

"  '  That  would  suit  me  well,'  said  I.     '  And  the  pay  ?  ' 

"  '  Is  four  pounds  a  week.' 

"  'And  the  work  ?  ' 

"  '  Well,  you  have  to  be  in  the  office,  or  at  least  in  the 
building,  the  whole  time.  If  you  leave  you  forfeit  your 
position  forever.  The  will  is  very  clear  upon  that  point. 
You  don't  comply  with  the  conditions  if  you  budge 
from  the  office  during  that  time.' 

"  '  It's  only  four  hours  a  day,  and  I  should  not  think 
of  leaving,'  said  I. 

" '  No  excuse  will  avail,'  said  Mr.  Duncan  Ross — 
*  neither  sickness,  nor  business,  nor  anything  else. 
There  you  must  stay,  or  you  lose  your  billet.' 

"  '  And  the  work  ? ' 

" '  Is  to  copy  out  the  "  Encyclopaedia  Britannica." 
There  is  the  first  volume  of  it  in  that  press.  You  must 
find  your  own  ink,  pens  and  blotting  paper,  but  we  pro- 
vide this  table  and  chair.  Will  you  be  ready  to-mor- 
row ? ' 

"'  Certainly,'  I  answered. 

"  '  Then  good-by,  Mr.  Jabez  Wilson,  and  let  me  con- 
gratulate you  once  more  on  the  important  position  you 
have  been  fortunate  enough  to  gain.'  He  bowed  me 
out  of  the  room  and  I  went  home  with  my  assistant, 


THE  RED-HEADED   LEAGUE.  n 

hardly  knowing  what  to  say  or  do,  I  was  so  pleased  at 
my  own  good  fortune. 

"  Well,  I  thought  the  matter  over  all  day,  and  by 
evening  I  was  in  low  spirits  again,  for  I  had  quite  per. 
suaded  myself  that  the  whole  affair  must  be  some  great 
hoax  or  fraud,  though  what  its  object  might  be  I  could 
not  imagine.  Vincent  Spaulding  did  what  he  could  to 
cheer  me  up,  but  by  bed-time  I  had  reasoned  myself 
out  of  the  whole  thing.  However,  in  the  morning  I  de- 
termined to  have  a  look  at  it  anyhow  ;  so  I  bought  a 
penny  bottle  of  ink,  and  with  a  quill  pen  and  seven 
sheets  of  foolscap  paper  I  started  off  for  Pope's  Court. 

"  Well,  to  my  surprise  and  delight,  everything  was 
as  right  as  possible.  The  table  was  set  out  ready  for 
me,  and  Mr.  Duncan  Ross  was  there  to  see  that  I  got 
fairly  to  work.  He  started  me  off  upon  the  letter  A, 
and  then  he  left  me,  but  he  would  drop  in  from  time  to 
time  to  see  that  all  was  right  with  me.  At  two  o'clock 
he  bade  me  good-day,  complimented  me  upon  the 
amount  I  had  written,  and  locked  the  door  of  the  office 
after  me. 

"  This  went  on  day  after  day,  Mr.  Holmes,  and  on 
Saturday  the  manager  came  in  and  planked  down  four 
golden  sovereigns  for  my  week's  work.  It  was  the  same 
the  next  week,  and  the  same  the  week  after.  Ev< 
morning  I  was  there  at  ten  and  every  afternoon  I  left 
at  two.  By  degrees  Mr.  Duncan  Ross  took  to  coming 
in  only  once  of  a  morning,  and  then,  after  a  time,  lu: 
did  not  come  at  all.  Still,  of  course,  I  never  dared  to 
leave  the  room  for  an  instant,  for  I  was  not  sure  when 
he  might  come ;  and  the  billet  was  such  a  good  one, 
and  suited  me  so  well,  that  I  would  not  risk  the  loss 
of  it. 

"  Eight  weeks  passed  away  like  this,  and  I  had  writ- 


12  THE  RED-HEADED   LEAGUE. 

ten  about  Abbots  and  Archery  and  Armour  and  Archi- 
tecture and  Attica,  and  hoped  with  diligence  that  I 
might  get  on  to  the  B's  before  long.  It  cost  me  some- 
thing in  foolscap,  and  I  had  pretty  nearly  filled  a  shelf 
with  my  writings,  and  then  suddenly  the  whole  busi- 
ness came  to  an  end." 

"  To  an  end  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir;  and  no  later  than  this  morning.  I  went 
to  my  work  as  usual  at  ten  o'clock,  but  the  door  was 
shut  and  locked,  with  a  little  square  of  cardboard  ham- 
mered on  to  the  middle  of  the  panel  with  a  tack.  Here 
it  is,  and  you  can  read  for  yourself." 

He  held  up  a  piece  of  cardboard  about  the  size  of  a 
sheet  of  note  paper ;  it  read  in  this  fashion  : 

"  THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE 
is 
DISSOLVED.    Oct.   9,    1890." 

Sherlock  Holmes  and  I  surveyed  this  curt  announce- 
ment and  the  rueful  face  behind  it,  until  the  comical 
side  of  the  affair  so  completely  overtopped  every  other 
consideration  that  we  both  burst  out  into  a  roar  of 
laughter. 

"  Pray  what  steps  did  you  take  when  you  found  the 
card  upon  the  door  ?  "  at  last  inquired  Holmes. 

"  I  was  staggered.  I  did  not  know  what  to  do. 
Then  I  called  at  the  offices  around  but  none  of  them 
seemed  to  know  anything  about  it.  Finally  I  went  to  the 
landlord,  who  is  an  accountant  living  on  the  ground 
floor,  and  I  asked  him  if  he  could  tell  me  what  had  be- 
come of  the  Red-Headed  League.  He  said  that  he  had 
never  heard  of  any  such  body.  Then  I  asked  him  who 
Mr.  Duncan  Ross  was.  He  answered  that  the  name  was 
new  to  him. 


THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE.  13 

"  '  Well,'  said  I,  '  the  gentleman  at  No.  4  ? ' 

"  '  Oh,'  said  he, '  the  red-headed  man  ?  His  name  was 
William  Morris.  He  was  a  solicitor,  and  was  using  my 
room  as  a  temporary  convenience  until  his  new  premises 
were  ready.  He  moved  out  yesterday  to  his  new  offices, 
No.  17  King  Edward  Street,  near  St.  Paul's.' 

"  I  started  off,  Mr.  Holmes,  but  when  I  got  to  that 
address  it  was  a  manufactory  of  artificial  knee  caps,  and 
no  one  in  it  had  ever  heard  of  either  Mr.  William  Mor- 
ris or  Mr.  Duncan  Ross,  so  I  went  home  to  Saxe-Coburg 
Square  to  seek  the  advice  of  my  assistant.  But  he 
could  not  help  me  in  any  way.  He  could  only  say 
that  if  I  waited  I  should  hear  by  post.  But  that  was 
not  quite  good  enough,  Mr.  Holmes.  I  did  not  wish  to 
lose  such  a  place  without  a  struggle,  so,  as  I  heard  that 
you  were  good  enough  to  give  advice  to  poor  folk  who 
needed  it,  I  came  right  away  to  you." 

"  And  you  did  very  wisely,"  said  Holmes.  "  Your 
case  is  an  exceedingly  remarkable  one,  and  I  shall  be 
happy  to  look  into  it.  From  what  you  have  told  me 
I  think  it  is  possible  that  graver  issues  hang  from  it 
than  might  at  first  sight  appear." 

"  Grave  enough,"  said  Mr.  Jabez  Wilson.  "  Why, 
I  have  lost  four  pounds  a  week." 

"  As  far  as  you  are  personally  concerned,"  remarked 
Holmes.  "  I  do  not  see  that  you  have  any  grievance 
against  this  extraordinary  league.  On  the  contrary, 
you  are,  as  I  understand,  richer  by  some  thirty  pounds, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  minute  knowledge  which  you 
have  gained  on  every  subject  which  comes  under  the 
Better  A.  You  have  lost  nothing  by  them." 

"  No,  sir.  But  I  want  to  find  out  about  them  and 
vho  they  are,  and  what  their  object  was  in  playing 
.his  prank — if  it  was  a  prank,  upon  me.  It  v.  .^  .1  pretty 


14  THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE. 

expensive  joke  for  them,  for  it  cost  them  two  and 
thirty  pounds."  , 

"  We  shall  endeavor  to  clear  up  these  points  for  you. 
And  first,  one  or  two  questions,  Mr.  Wilson.  This 
assistant  of  yours  who  first  called  your  attention  to 
the  advertisement — how  long  had  he  been  with  yo-u  ?" 

"  About  a  month  then." 

"What  is  he  like,  this  Vincent  Spaulding?" 

"  Small,  stout  built,  very  quick  in  his  ways,  no  hair 
on  his  face,  though  he's  not  short  of  thirty.  Has  a 
white  splash  of  acid  upon  his  forehead." 

Holmes  sat  up  in  his  chair  in  considerable  excitement. 

"  I  thought  as  much,"  said  he.  "  Have  you  ever 
observed  that  his  ears  are  pierced  for  earrings  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir.  He  told  me  that  a  gypsy  had .  done  it 
for  him  when  he  was  a  lad." 

"Hum!"  said  Holmes,  sinking  back  in  deep 
thought.  "That  will  do,  Mr.  Wilson.  I  shall  be 
happy  to  give  you  an  opinion  upon  the  subject  in  the 
course  of  a  day  or  two.  To-day  is  Saturday  and  I 
hope  that  by  Monday  we  may  come  to  a  conclusion." 

"  Well,  Watson,"  said  Holmes,  when  our  visitor 
had  left  us,  "  what  do  you  make  of  it  all  ?  " 

"  I  make  nothing  of  it,"  I  answered,  frankly.  "  It  is 
a  most  mysterious  business." 

"As  a  rule,"  said  Holmes,  "  the  more  bizarre  a 
thing  is  the  less  mysterious  it  proves  to  be.  It  is' your 
commonplace,  featureless  crimes  which  are  really  puz- 
zling, just  as  a  commonplace  face  is  the  most  difficult 
to  identify.  But  I  must  be  prompt  over  this  matter." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  then  ?"  I  asked. 

"  To  smoke,"  he  answered.  "It  is  quite  a  three- 
pipe  problem,  and  I  beg  that  you  won't  speak  to  me 
for  fifty  minutes." 


THE   RED-HEADED   LEAGUE.  15 

He  curled  himself  up  in  his  chair,  with  his  thin 
-  drawn  up  to  his  hawk-like. nose,  and  there  he  sat 
with  his  eyes  closed  and  his  black  clay  pipe  thrusting 
out  like  the  bill  of  some  strange  bird.  I  had  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  he  had  dropped  asleep,  and,  indeed 
was  nodding  myself,  when  he  suddenly- sprang  out  of 
his  chair  with  the  gesture  of  a  man  who  had  made  up 
his  mind,  and  put  his  pipe  down  upon  the  mantel-piece. 

"  Sarasate  plays  at  the  St.  James'  Hall  this  after- 
noon," he  remarked.  "  What  do  you  think,  Watson? 
Could  your  patients  spare  you  for  a  few  hours  ?  " 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do  to-day.  My  practice  is  never 
very  absorbing." 

"  Then  put  on  your  hat  and  come.  I  am  going 
through  the  city  first,  and  we  can  have  some  lunch  on 
the  way." 

We  traveled  by  the  underground  as  far  as  Aldersgate, 
and  a  short  walk  took  us  to  Saxe-Coburg  Square, 
the  scene  of  the  singular  story  which  we  had  listened 
to  in  the  morning.  It  was  a  pokey  little  shabby-gen- 
trrl  place,  where  four  lines  of  dingy  two-storied  brick 
houses  looked  out  into  a  small  railed-in  inclosurc,  where 
a  lawn  of  weedy  grass  and  a  few  clumps  of  faded  laurel 
bushes  made  a  hard  fight  against  a  smoke-laden  and 
uncongenial  atmosphere.  Three  gilt  balls  and  a  brown 
board  with  "  Jabez  Wilson "  in  white  letters  upon  a 
corner  house  announced  the  place  where  our  red- 
headed client  carried  on  his  business.  Sherlock  Holmes 
stopped  in  front  of  it  with  his  head  on  one  side 
and  looked  it  all  over.  Then  he  walked  slowly  up  the 
street  and  then  down  again  to  the  corner,  still  looking 
keenly  at  the  houses.  Finally  he  returned  to  the  pawn- 
broker's, and,  having  thumped  vigorously  upon  the 
pavement  with  his  stick  two  or  three  times,  he  went  up 


16  THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE. 

to  the  door  and  knocked.  It  was  instantly  opened  by 
a  bright-looking,  clean-shaven  young  fellow,  who  asked 
him  to  step  in. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Holmes.  "  I  only  wished  to  ask 
you  how  you  would  go  from  here  to  the  Strand." 

"  Third  right,  fourth  left,"  answered  the  assistant 
promptly,  closing  the  door. 

"  Smart  fellow,  that,"  observed  Holmes,  as  he 
walked  away.  "  He  is,  in  my  judgment,  the  fourth 
smartest  man  in  London,  and  for  daring  I  am  not 
sure  that  he  has  not  a  claim  to  be  third.  I  have  known 
something  of  him  before." 

"  Evidently,"  said  I,  "  Mr.  Wilson's  assistant  counts 
for  a  good  deal  in  this  mystery  of  the  Red-Headed 
League.  I  am  sure  that  you  inquired  your  way  merely 
in  order  that  you  might  see  him." 

"  Not  him." 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"  The  knees  of  his  trousers.  Now  we  know  some- 
thing of  Saxe-Coburg  Square.  Let  us  explore  the 
parts  which  lie  behind  it." 

The  road  in  which  we  found  ourselves  as  we  turned 
around  the  corner  from  the  retired  Saxe-Coburg  Square 
presented  as  great  a  contrast  to  it  as  the  front  of  a 
picture  does  to  the  back.  It  was  one  of  the  main  ar- 
teries which  convey  the  traffic  of  the  city  to  the  north 
and  west.  The  roadway  was  blocked  with  the  immense 
stream  of  commerce  in  a  double  tide  inwards  and  out- 
wards, while  the  footpaths  were  black  with  the  hur- 
rying swarm  of  pedestrians.  It  was  difficult  to  realize 
as  we  looked  at  the  line  of  fine  shops  and  stately  busi- 
ness premises  that  they  reallyabutted  on  the  other  side 
upon  the  faded  and  stagnant  square  which  we  had  just 
quitted. 


THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE.  17 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Holmes,  standing  at  the  corner 
and  glancing  along  the  line.  "  I  should  like  to 
remember  the  order  of  the  houses  here.  It  is  a  hobby 
of  mine  to  have  an  exact  knowledge  of  London. 
There  is  Mortimer's,  the  tobacconist,  the  little  newspaper 
shop,  the  Coburg  branch  of  the  City  and  Suburban 
Bank,  the  Vegetarian  Restaurant,  and  McFarlane's 
carriage  building  depot.  That  carries  us  right  on  to 
the  other  block.  And  now,  doctor,  we've  done  our 
work,  so  it's  time  we  had  some  play.  A  sandwich  and 
a  cup  of  coffee  and  then  off  to  violin-land,  where  all  is 
sweetness  and  delicacy  and  harmony,  and  there  are  no 
red-headed  clients  to  vex  us  with  their  conundrums." 

"  You  want  to  go  home,  no  doubt,  doctor,"  he 
remarked,  as  we  emerged  from  St.  James*  Hall  two 
hours  later. 

"  Yes,  it  would  be  as  well." 

"And  I  have  some  business  to  do  which  will  take 
some  hours.  This  business  at  Coburg  Square  is 
serious.  I  shall  want  your  help  to-night." 

44  At  what  time  ?  " 

"Ten  will  be  early  enough." 

44  I  shall  be  at  Baker  Street  at  ten." 

14  Very  well.  And  I  say,  doctor,  there  may  be  some 
little  danger,  so  kindly  put  your  army  revolver  in  your 
pocket." 

He  waved  his  hand,  turned  on  his  heel  and  disappeared 
in  an  instant  among  the  crowd. 

It  was  a  quarter-past  nine  when  I  started  for  home 
and  made  my  way  across  the  Park,  and  so  on  through 
Oxford  Street  to  Baker  Street.  Two  hansoms  were 
standing  at  the  door,  and  as  I.  entered  the  passage  I 
heard  the  sound  of  voices  from  above.  On  entering 
his  room  1  tound  Holmes  in  animated  conversation 


i8  THE  RED-HEADED   LEAGUE. 

with  two  men,  one  of  whom  I  recognized  as  Peter 
Jones,  the  official  police  agent,  while  the  other  was  a 
long,  thin,  sad-faced  man,  with  a  very  shiny  hat  and 
oppressively  respectable  frock  coat. 

"  Ha  !  our  party  is  complete,"  said  Holmes,  buttoning 
up  his  pea  jacket  and  taking  his  heavy  hunting  crop 
from  the  rack.  "  Watson,  I  think  you  know  Mr. 
Jones  of  Scotland  Yard  ?  Let  me  introduce  you  to 
Mr.  Merryweather,  who  is  to  be  our  companion  in  to- 
night's adventure." 

"  We're  hunting  in  couples  again,  doctor,  you  see," 
said  Jones,  in  his  consequential  way.  "  Our  friend 
here  is  a  wonderful  man  for  starting  a  chase.  All  he 
wants  is  an  old  dog  to  help  him  do  the  running  down." 

"  I  hope  a  wild-goose  may  not  prove  to  be  the  end 
of  our  chase,"  said  Mr.  Merryweather,  gloomily.  "  I 
confess  that  I  miss  my  rubber.  It  is  the  first  Saturday 
night  for  seven-and-twenty  years  that  I  have  not  had 
my  rubber." 

"  I  think  you  will  find,"  said  Sherlock  Holmes, 
"  that  you  will  play  for  a  higher  stake  to-night  than 
you  have  ever  done  yet,  and  that  the  play  will  be  more 
exciting.  For  you,  Mr.  Merryweather,  the  stake  will 
be  some  thirty  thousand  pounds  ;  and  for  you,  Jones, 
it  will  be  the  man  upon  whom  you  wish  to  lay  your 
.hands." 

"  John  Clay,  the  murderer,  thief,  smasher  and  forger," 
said  the  police  agent,  in  explanation.  "  He's  a  young 
man,  Mr.  Merryweather,  but  he  is  at  the  head  of  his 
profession,  and  I  would  rather  have  my  bracelets  on 
him  than  on  any  criminal  in  London.  He's  a  remark- 
able man,  is  young  John  Clay.  His  grandfather  was  a 
royal  duke,  and  he  himself  has  been  to  Eton  and  Ox- 
ford. His  brain  is  as  cunning  as  his^  fingers,  and 


THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE.  19 

though  we  meet  signs  of  him  at  every  turn,  we  never 
know  where  to  find  the  man  himself.  He'll  crack  a 
crib  in  Scotland  one  week  and  be  raising  money  to 
build  an  orphanage  in  Cornwall  the  next.  I've  been  on 
his  track  for  years,  and  have  never  set  eyes  on  him  yet." 

"  I  hope  I  may  have  the  pleasure  of  introducing  you 
to-night.  I've  had  one  or  two  turns  also  with  Mr. 
John  Clay,  and  I  agree  with  you  that  he  is  at  the  lu-ad 
of  his  profession.  It  is  past  ten,  however,  and  quite 
time  that  we  started.  If  you  two  will  take  the  first 
hansom,  Watson  and  I  will  follow  in  the  second." 

Sherlock  Holmes  was  not  very  communicative  dur- 
ing the  long  drive  and  lay  back  in  the  cab  humming 
the  tunes  which  he  had  heard  in  the  afternoon.  \\  c 
rattled  through  a  labyrinth  of  streets  until  we  emerged 
into  Farrington  Street,  and  had  reached  the  same- 
crowded  thoroughfare  in  which  we  had  found  ourselves 
in  the  morning.  Our  cabs  were  dismissed,  and,  follow- 
ing the  guidance  of  Mr.  Merry  weather,  we  passed  down 
a  narrow  passage  and  through  a  side  door,  which  he 
opened  for  us.  Within  there  was  a  small  corridor, 
which  ended  in  a  very  massive  iron  gate.  This  also 
was  opened  and  led  down  a  flight  of  winding  stone 
steps,  which  terminated  at  another  formidable  gate. 
Mr.  Merryweather  stopped  to  light  a  lantern,  and  then 
conducted  us  down  a  dark,  earth-smelling  passage,  and 
so,  after  opening  a  third  door,  into  a  huge  vault  or 
cellar,  which  was  piled  all  round  with  crates  and  mas- 
sive boxes. 

"You  are  not  very  vulnerable  from  above,"  Holmes 
remarked,  as  he  held  up  the  lantern  and  gazed  about 
him. 

"  Nor  from  below,"  said  Mr.  Merryweather,  striking 
his  stick  upon  the  flags  which  lined  the  floor.  "  Why, 


20  THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE. 

dear  me,  it  sounds  quite  hollow,"  he  remarked,  looking 
up  in  surprise. 

"  I  must  really  ask  you  to  be  a  little  more  quiet," 
said  Holmes,  severely.  "  You  have  already  imperiled 
the  whole  success  of  our  expedition.  Might  I  beg  that 
you  would  have  the  goodness  to  sit  down  upon  one  of 
those  boxes  and  not  to  interfere  ?  " 

The  solemn  Mr.  Merryweather  perched  himself  upon 
a  crate,  with  a  very  injured  expression  upon  his  face, 
while  Holmes  fell  on  his  knees  upon  the  floor,  and 
with  a  lantern  and  magnifying  lens  began  to  examine 
minutely  the  cracks  between  the  stones.  A  few 
seconds  sufficed  to  satisfy  him,  for  he  sprang  to  his 
feet  again  and  put  his  glass  in  his  pocket. 

"  We  have  at  least  an  hour  before  us,"  he  remarked, 
"  for  they  can  hardly  take  any  steps  until  the  good 
pawnbroker  is  in  bed.  Then  they  will  not  lose  a 
minute,  for  the  sooner  they  do  their  work  the  longer 
time  they  will  have  for  their  escape.  We  are  at  present, 
doctor,  as  no  doubt  you  have  divined,  in  the  cellar  of 
the  city  branch  of  one  of  the  principal  London  banks. 
Mr.  Merryweather  is  the  chairman  of  directors,  and  he 
will  explain  to  you  that  there  are  reasons  why  the 
more  daring  criminals  of  London  should  take  a  con- 
siderable interest  in  this  cellar  at  present." 

"  It  is  our  French  gold,"  whispered  the  director. 
"  We  have  had  several  warnings  that  an  attempt  might 
be  made  upon  it." 

"  Your  French  gold  ?  " 

"  Yes.  We  had  occasion  some  months  ago  to  streng- 
then our  resources,  and  borrowed,  for  that  purpose, 
30,000  napoleons  from  the  Bank  of  France.  It  has  be- 
come known  that  we  have  never  had  occasion  to  unpack 
the  money,  and  that  it  is  still  lying  in  the  cellar.  The 


THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE.  21 

crate  upon  which  I  sit  contains  2,000  napoleons  packed 
between  layers  of  lead  foil." 

"  Now,"  observed  Holmes,  "  it  is  time  that  we 
arranged  our  little  plans.  I  expect  that  within  an  hour 
matters  will  come  to  a  head.  In  the  meantime,  Mr. 
Merry  weather,  we  must  put  the  screen  over  that  dark 
lantern." 

"  And  sit  in  the  dark  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  so.  And  first  of  all  we  must  choose  our 
positions.  These  are  daring  men,  and  though  we  shall 
take  them  at  a  disadvantage,  they  may  do  us  some 
harm  unless  we  are  careful.  I  shall  stand  behind  this 
crate,  and  do  you  conceal  yourself  behind  those.  Then, 
when  I  flash  a  light  upon  them,  close  in  quickly.  If 
they  fire,  Watson,  have  no  compunction  about  shoot- 
ing the  men  down." 

I  placed  my  revolver,  cocked,  upon  the  top  of  the 
wooden  case  behind  which  I  crouched.  Then  Holmes 
shot  the  slide  across  the  front  of  his  lantern  and  left  us 
in  pitch  darkness — such  an  absolute  darkness  as  I  have 
never  before  experienced.  The  smell  of  the  hot  metal 
remained  to  assure  us  that  the  light  was  still  there, 
ready  to  flash  out  at  a  moment's  notice.  To  me,  with 
my  nerves  worked  up  to  a  pitch  of  expectancy,  there 
was  something  depressing  and  subduing  in  the  sudden 
gloom  and  the  cold,  dank  air  of  the  vault. 

"  They  have  but  one  retreat,"  whispered  Mr.  Holmes. 
"That  is  back  through  the  house  into  Saxe-Coburg 
Square.  I  hope  that  you  have  done  what  I  asked  you, 
Jones  ?  " 

"  I  have  an  inspector  and  two  officers  waiting  at  the 
front  door." 

"  Then  we  have  stopped  all  the  holes.  And  now  we 
must  be  silent  and  wait." 


22  THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE. 

What  a  time  it  seemed !  From  comparing  notes 
afterward  it  was  but  an  hour  and  a  quarter,  yet  it 
appeared  to  me  that  the  night  must  have  almost  gone 
and  the  dawn  be  breaking  above  us.  My  limbs  were 
weary  and  stiff,  for  I  feared  to  change  my  position  ; 
yet  my  nerves  were  worked  up  to  the  highest  pitch  of 
tension,  and  my  hearing  was  so  acute  that  I  could  not 
only  hear  the  gentle  breathing  of  my  companions,  but 
I  could  distinguish  the  deeper,  heavier  inbreath  of  the 
bulky  Jones  from  the  thin,  sighing  note  of  the  bank 
director.  From-  my  position  I  could  look  over  the 
case  in  the  direction  of  the  floor.  Suddenly  my  eyes 
caught  the  glint  of  a  light. 

At  first  it  was  but  a  lurid  spark  upon  the  stone 
pavement.  Then  it  lengthened  out  until  it  became  a 
yellow  line,  and  then,  without  any  warning  or  sound,  a 
gash  seemed  to  open  and  a  hand  appeared— a  white, 
almost  womanly  hand — which  felt  about  in  the  center 
of  the  little  area  of  light.  For  a  minute  or  more  the 
hand,  with  its  writhing  fingers,  protruded  out  of  the 
floor.  Then  it  was  withdrawn  as  suddenly  as  it 
appeared,  and  all  was  dark  again  save  the  single 
lurid  spark,  which  now  marked  a  chink  between  the 
stones. 

Its  disappearance,  however,  was  but  momentary. 
With  a  rending,  tearing  sound,  one  of  the  broad,  white 
stones  turned  over  upon  its  side,  and  left  a  square, 
gaping  hole,  through  which  streamed  the  light  of  a 
lantern.  Over  the  edge  there  appeared  a  clean-cut, 
boyish  face,  which  looked  keenly  about  it,  and  then, 
with  a  hand  on  either  side  of  the  aperture,  drew  itself 
shoulder  high  and  waist  high,  until  one  knee  rested 
upon  the  edge.  In  another  instant  he  stood  at  the 
edge  of  the  hole,  and  was  hauling  after  him  a  compan- 


THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE.  23 

ion,  lithe  and  small  like  himself,  with  a  pale  face  and  a 
shock  of  very  red  hair. 

"  It's  all  clear,  "  he  whispered.  "  Have  you  the  chisel 
and  the  bags?  Great  Scott!  Jump,  Archie,  jump, 
and  I'll  swing  for  it !" 

Sherlock  Holmes  had  sprung  out  and  seized  the 
intruder  by  the  collar.  The  other  dived  down  the  hole 
and  I  heard  the  sound  of  rending  cloth  as  Jones  clutch- 
ed at  his  skirts.  The  light  flashed  upon  the  barrel  of  a 
revolver,  but  Holmes'  hunting  crop  came  down  upon  the 
man's  wrist,  and  the  pistol  clinked  upon  the  stone  floor. 

"  It's  no  use,  John  Clay,"  said  Holmes,  blandly. 
You  have  no  chance  at  all." 

"  So  I  see,"  the  other  answered,  with  the  utmost 
coolness.  "  I  fancy  that  my  pal  is  all  right,  though  I 
see  that  you  have  got  his  coat-tails." 

"  There  are  three  men  waiting  for  him  at  the  door," 
said  Holmes. 

"  Oh,  indeed.  You  seem  to  have  done  this  thing 
very  completely.  I  must  compliment  you." 

"  You'll  see  your  pal  again  presently,"  said  Jones. 
"  He's  quicker  at  climbing  down  holes  than  I  am.  Just 
hold  out  while  I  fix  the  derbies.  Now  would .  you 
please  march  up-stairs,  where  we  can  get  a  cab  to  carry 
you  to  the  police  station?" 

And  John  Clay  walked  quietly  off  in  the  custody  of 
the  detective. 

"  Really,  Mr.  Holmes,"  said  Mr.  Merryweather,  as 
\vc  followed  them  from  the  cellar,  "  I  do  not  know 
how  the  bank  can  thank  you  or  repay  you.  There  is 
no  doubt  that  you  have  detected  and  defeated  in  the 
most  complete  manner  one  of  the  most  determined  at- 
tempts at  bank  robbery  that  have  ever  come  within 
my  experience." 


24  THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE. 

"  You  see,  Watson,"  Sherlock  Holmes  explained,  in 
the  early  hours  of  the  morning,  as  we  sat  over  a  glass 
of  whisky  and  soda  in  Baker  Street,  "  It  was  perfectly 
obvious  from  the  first  that  the  only  possible  object  of 
this  rather  fantastic  business  of  the  advertisement  of 
the  League  and  copying  of  the  Encyclopaedia  must  be 
to  get  this  not  overbright  pawnbroker  out  of  the  way 
for  a  number  of  hours  every  day.  The  method  was 
no  doubt  suggested  to  Clay's  ingenious  mind  by  the 
color  of  his  accomplice's  hair.  From  the  time  that  I 
heard  of  the  assistant  having  come  for  half  wages,  it 
was  obvious  to  me  that  hie  had  some  strong  motive  for 
securing  the  situation." 

"  But  how  could  you  guess  what  the  motive  was  ?  " 

"  I  made  inquiries  as  to  this  mysterious  assistant  and 
found  that  I  had  to  deal  with  one  oH:hc  coolest  and  most 
daring  criminals  in  London.  He  was  doing  something 
in  the  cellar — something  which  took  many  hours  a  day 
for  months  on  end.  What  could  it  be,  once  more  ?  I 
could  think  of  nothing  save  that  it  was  running  a 
tunnel  to  some  other  building. 

"  So  far  I  had  got  when  we  went  to  visit  the  scene 
of  action.  I  surprised  you  by  beating  upon  the  pave- 
ment with  my  stick.  I  was  ascertaining  whether  the 
cellar  stretched  out  in  front  or  behind.  It  was  not  in 
front.  Then  I  rang  the  bell,  and,  as  I  hoped,  the 
assistant  answered  it.  We  have  seen  some  skirmishes, 
but  we  had  never  set  eyes  upon  each  other  before.  I 
hardly  looked  at  his  face.  His  knees  were  what  I 
wished  to  see.  You  must  yourself  have  remarked  how 
worn,  wrinkled  and  stained  they  were.  They  spoke  of 
those  hours  of  burrowing.  The  only  remaining 
point  was  what  were  they  burrowing  for  ?  I  walked 
around  the  corner,  saw  that  the  City  and  Suburban 


THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE.  25 

Bank  abutted  on  our  friend's  premises,  and  felt  that  I 
had  solved  my  problem." 

"  And  how  could  you  tell  that  they  would  make  their 
attempt  to-night  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Well,  when  they  closed  their  League  offices  that 
was  a  sign  that  they  cared  no  longer  about  Mr.  Jabez 
Wilson's  presence — in  other  words,  that  they  had  com- 
pleted their  tunnel.  Saturday  would  suit  them  better 
than  any  other  day,  as  it  would  give  them  two  days 
for  their  escape.  For  all  these  reasons  I  expected  them 
to  come  to-night.  When  you  drove  home  after  the  con- 
cert I  called  upon  Scotland  Yard  and  upon  the  chair- 
man of  the  board  of  directors  with  the  result  that  yo« 
have  seen." 


THE  SECRET  PANEL 


THE  SECRET  PANEL. 


THAT  extensive  range  of  lofty  hills  In  the  northern 
parts  of  Germany,  known  as  the  Hartz  Mountains,  hat 
for  centuries  been  made  the  scene  of  various  ghostly 
transactions ;  and  thousands  of  German  peasants  at  the 
present  day  regard  some  portion  of  this  territory  as  a 
bona-fide  spirit  land.  The  traveler  who  may  chance  to 
rest  beneath  any  of  the  hospitable  roofs  in  this  vicinity 
will  find  ample  material  for  the  foundation  of  romance 
and  novelty,  provided  he  will  give  his  kind  hostess  an 
hour  or  two  of  attentive  listening.  Most  of  the  legends 
of  these  mountains  are  deeply  affecting — some  of  them 
are  within  the  bounds  of  reason ;  but  generally  they  are 
rather  beyond  the  ken  of  rational  visions.  Yet,  for  all 
their  improbability,  the  greater  portion  of  them  rest  upon 
the  basis  of  solid  facts. 

In  the  story  we  are  about  to  relate  some  of  that  mi*. 
teriul  which  superstition  weaves  into  the  fabric  of  won- 
der, is  necessarily  introduced  ;  but  yet  we  shall  leave  the 
reader  in  none  of  those  unsettled  moods  which  are  the 
result  of  "  things  not  understood." 

Near  the  northern  extremity  of  the  Hartz  Mountains 
is  situated  the  city  of  Wolfenbattel,  which  is  the  capital 
of  a  principality  bearing  the  same  name.  The  castle, 
which  has  since  been  the  residence  of  a  somewhat  power- 
ful line  of  dukes,  was,  in  the  year  1668,  in  possession  of 
the  iiaron  Waldrec,  a  brave  old  soldier  of  the  iron  stamp. 

3 


4  THE  SECRET  PANEL. 

He  had  no  family  of  his  own,  and  to  have  some  object 
upon  which  to  rest  his  warm  affections,  he  had  taken 
beneath  his  roof  the  family  of  his  younger  brother,  Ru- 
dolph, who  lived  mostly  on  the  bounty  of  the  baron. 
The  baroness  had  mysteriously  disappeared  some  nine- 
teen years  before,  and  was  supposed  to  have  been 
drowned,  and  that,  too,  at  a  time  when  her  husband  was 
expecting  her  shortly  to  present  him  with  an  heir. 

One  evening  Sir  Rudolph  returned  from  a  somewhat 
protracted  visit  to  the  country,  and  immediately  sum- 
moned his  eldest  daughter,  Theresa,  to  attend  him  in  the 
large  chamber  in  the  western  wing  of  the  castle.  There 
was  anxiety  and  something  akin  to  fear  stamped  upon 
Rudolph's  countenance,  as  he  passed  up  and  down  the 
chamber,  waiting  for  the  arrival  of  his  daughter.  When 
she  at  length  came,  he  commenced  : 

"  Well,  Theresa,  I  have  seen  the  young  baronet,  Sir 
Frederic  Enstein,  and  have  ascertained  the  long  cause  of 
his  absence  from  us." 

"  And  what  can  it  be,  father  ?  " 

"  You  would  hardly  guess  the  truth ;  but  yet  it  is 
nothing  strange,  after  all.  The  fact  is,  he  has  by  some 
means  discovered  that  we  aimed .  at  a  union  between  him 
and  yourself  ;  and  his  affections  being  already  engrossed 
in  a  fair  damsel  whom  chance  has  thrown  in  his  way,  he 
deems  it  injudicious  to " 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  see,"  interrupted  Theresa ;  "  he  fears  that 
I  should  form  an  unrequited  attachment,  and  that,  too, 
for  him  ;  so  he  is  magnanimous  enough  not  to  trust  his 
captivating  self  near  me." 

"  But  I  thought  you  really  loved  Frederic  Enstein." 

"  So  I  did ;  but  do  you  think  that  I  can  be  made  to 
bow  beneath  a  man's  neglect  ?  No.  Sir  Frederic  Enstein 
ihall  find  that  I  at  least,  can  brook  his  neglect.  But  who 
M  this  favored  damsel  ?  " 


THE  SECRET  PANEL.  5 

"  There  is  the  pith  of  the  matter.  It  is  the  daughter 
ti  old  Joseph,  the  gardener." 

"  So  he  has  taken  a  fancy  to  some  rural,  unsophisti- 
cated maid,  has  he?  I'll  thwart  him." 

"  My  daughter,  there  is  something  deeper  than  mere 
love  and  pique  in  this  matter.  My  brother  has  made  his 
will,  and  this  same  Frederic  Enstein  is  to  come  in  pos- 
iii  of  nearly  one-half  of  the  whole  estate,  leaving  the 
rest  to  be  equally  divided  among  my  three  sons,  reserv- 
ing for  yourself  and  me  only  a  small  annual  income.  It 
appears  that  Frederic  served  under  him  during  his  last 
campaign,  and  twice  saved  his  life.  The  emperor  be- 
stowed a  baronetcy  upon  -him  in  honor  of  his  bravery, 
and  the  baron  has  taken  it  into  his  head  to  finish  the 
work,  by  awarding  to  him  a  princely  portion.  Do  you 
not  see  how  much  we  both  lose  through  this  young 
man?" 

For  some  moments  the  fair  girl  seemed  lost  in  deep 
thought.     At  length,  raising  her  large,  dark  eyes  to  the 
face  of  her   father,  she   asked,  in  slow  and   mea 
tones : 

kt  I  Jut  is  there  not  something  back  of  all  that  you  have 
mentioned — something  deeper  still  than  wills  ami  1» 
ments  ?  " 

Sir  Rudolph  trembled — then  turned  pale.  He  gazed 
fixedly  into  the  face  of  his  daughter,  but  could  discern 
nothing  there  save  a  steady,  inquiring  expression,  lie 
composed  himself,  and  asked  : 

"What  does  your  question  aim  at?  I  certainly  fail  to 
comprehend  your  meaning." 

"Oh,  nothing;  I  merely  asked  the  question  l>ecause  1 
thought  something  appeared  to  weigh  at  times  upon  your 
mind;  and  if  I  am  to  assist  you  in  any  plan,  it  is  l.ut 
right  that  I  should  know  tho  actual  state  of  affairs,  so 
that  I  may  work  undersUuulingly." 


•  THE  SECRET  PANEL. 

"  You  have  already  heard  all  that  is  necessary,  and  if 
you  possess  that  pride  which  belongs  to  your  nature,  you 
will  second  my  plan." 

"  And  what  is  that  plan  ?  " 

« It  is  to  remove  the  girl  who  holds  so  much  power 
over  Frederic." 

"  Ah,  yes ;  I  understand."  For  a  moment  Theresa 
hesitated,  but  at  length  added :  "  You  must  concoct  your 
plan,  and  then  let  me  know  it.  In  the  mean  time  I  would 
be  left  alone." 

As  the  door  closed  upon  the  retiring  form  of  his 
daughter,  Sir  Rudolph  commenced  pacing  back  and  forth 
in  an  uneasy  study.  He  little  knew  the  spirit  with  which 
he  had  to  deal.  Theresa  was  at  heart  a  noble  girl ;  but 
she  knew  that  her  father  meditated  some  scheme  ol 
iniquity,  and  she  was  determined  to  frustrate  it  if  pos- 
sible ;  and  in  order  to  do  this,  she  must  seemingly  acqui- 
esce until  she  could  get  fully  acquainted  with  his  plans. 

There  was  one  other  thing  she  wished  to  understand. 
She  had  seen  enough  to  satisfy  her  that  some  unfair 
means  had  already  been  adopted  by  her  father.  He  seemed 
troubled  at  times,  and  would  frequently  lock  himself  up 
in  his  chamber  during  a  whole  day.  Besides  all  this, 
Theresa  had  plighted  her  vows  of  affection  to  Colonel 
Walstein,  a  young  officer  who  frequently  visited  her 
uncle.  It  pained  her  to  ba  obliged  to  dissemble  before 
her  parent,  but  she  deemed  that  circumstances  fully  justi- 
fied her. 

Sir  Rudolph  still  continued  to  pace  up  and  down  the 
large  apartment.  The  gray  twilight  was  fast  deepening 
into  darker  shades,  and  Rudolph's  mind  seemed  to  cor- 
respond with  the  somber  hues  that  were  gathering  around. 
Occasionally  he  would  stop  and  clasp  his  hands  over  his 
forehead — then  start  forward  again — his  mind  seemed 
troubled,  and  some  phantom  appeared  to  be  constantly 


THE  SECRET  PANEL.  7 

riding  upon  his  memory.  He  approached  the  extremity 
of  the  chamber,  and  was  about  to  turn,  when  he  raised 
his  eyes.  An  exclamation  of  horror  burst  from  his  Ups, 
and  he  started  back,  trembling  in  every  limb.  There, 
before  him,  stood  an  object  that  struck  terror  to  his  soul. 
It  was  the  Spirit  of  the  Hartz  Mountains.  How  she  came, 
or  whither,  lit;  beede  I  not ;  but  the  object  of  her  intru- 
sion— what  was  it  ri  People  said  her  presence  boded  no 
good,  and  he  certainly  was  in  no  frame  of  mind  to  feel 
easy  under  her  piercing  gaze.  She  spoke  : 

"  Rudolph  Waldrec,  beware !  " 

"  Who  are  you,  and  what  would  you  with  me  ?  "  gasped 
the  stricken  man. 

"  I  am  one  who  knows  you  well.  Your  whole  life  is  a 
plain  tale  to  me." 

He  strained  his  starting  eyeballs  to  their  utmost  tension 
to  pierce  beneath  those  long  matted  locks  ;  but  he  only  saw 
her  gleaming  eyes,  and  her  thin  finger,  as  it  was  raised 
menacingly  toward  him. 

"  Rudolph  Waldrec,  years  ago  I  saw  a  woman  drown- 
ing— I  heard  her  scream  in  the  agony  of  despair.  She 
might  have  been  saved.  Did  you  see  it?" 

"  NVoman — fiend — devil !  whatever  you  be  you  can- 
not  " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence ;  he  started  back  and 
rubbed  his  eyes — but  she  was  gone ;  where  or  how  he 
could  not  divine.  All  was  still  save  the  beatings  of  his 
own  heart. 

The  cot  of  old  Joseph,  the  gardener,  was  situated  at  the 
foot  of  a  large  mountain,  and  thither  Theresa  Waldreo 
bent  her  steps  early  on  the  morning  succeeding  her  inter- 
view with  her  father.  She  knocked  at  the  door,  and  was 
answered  by  the  old  man  himself.  She  desired  to  see  and 
speak  with  his  daughter,  and  was  kindly  introduerd  into 
the  hon>>-  and  invited  to  take  a  seat.  She  •  •  'eft  alun« 


8  THE  SECRET  PANEL. 

a  few  moments,  when  the  door  opened  and  a  young  girl 
entered,  who  bade  the  visitor  welcome,  and  reported  her- 
self as  the  person  sought  after.  She  was  a  noble-looking 
girl,  cast  in  nature's  healthiest  mold  ;  and  from  her  full 
brow  and  gleaming  eyes  there  shone  forth  a  mind  and 
soul  of  humanity.  Theresa  wondered  not  that  Frederic 
Enstein  should  love  the  girl  before  her,  and  in  a  moment 
she  had  determined  that  no  s&heme  of  her  father's  should 
cast  its  evil  on  her  head.  « You  may  be  somewhat  sur- 
prised," continued  Theresa,  as  her  companion  seated  her- 
Belf,  "  that  I  should  thus  seek  you ;  but  I  have  something 
of  importance  to  communicate.  To  be  frank,  I  will  come 
at  once  to  the  business  of  my  visit.  Does  not  Frederic 
Enstein  sometimes  visit  here  ?  " 

The  fair  girl  blushed,  and  for  a  moment  was  deeply 
perplexed  ;  but  a  pure  heart  has  nothing  to  fear ;  and  she 
frankly  answered: 

"  He  does." 

"  And  did  he  ever  mention  to  you  the  name  of  Theresa 
Waldrec  ?  " 

"  He  has,  lady." 

"  He  has  told  you  that  she  desired  his  hand  in  mar- 
riage ?  " 

"  No ;  his  remarks  touching  that  lady  have  ever  been 
friendly  and  respectful.  But " 

"  But  what  ?  I  am  the  lady  in  question,  and  I  assure 
you  that  I  have  the  best  of  motives  in  thus  addressing 
you." 

"  Well,  then,  he  has  made  some  allusion  to  a  desire  of 
your  father  to  that  effect,  but  you  were  not  included  hi  the 
affair." 

"  I  thank  you,  my  fair  friend,  for  your  frankness,  and 
will  tell  you  why  I  sought  you.  It  is  true  that  my  father 
desires  the  union  of  Frederic  and  myself,  but  my  desires 
lay  not  that  way,  I  love  him  as  a  brother,  but  ay  faith  is 


THE  SECRET  PANEL.  f 

already  plighted  to  another.  Frederic  is  worthy  your  best 
love  and  esteem,  and  you  shall  have  my  influence  to  make 
you  happy." 

The  young  girl  laid  her  head  upon  the  bosom  of  her  visi- 
tor and  wept.  She  poured  out  her  gratitude  in  blessings, 
and  thanked  her  warmly  for  her  kindness. 

"  And  now,"  continued  Theresa,  as  she  rose  to  depart, 
"  some  steps  may  be  taken  to  prevent  this  union ;  but 
t  rust  to  me,  and  all  my  power  shall  be  at  your  service. 
But  I  do  not  yet  know  your  name." 

"  Euphemia  Rothburt,  my  kind  lady." 

"  I  shall  never  forget  that  name.  My  uncle's  wife  was 
called  Euphemia.  But  farewell  for  the  present.  I  shall  see 
you  again  ere  long." 

Theresa  left  the  cot  with  a  glad  heart.  She  had  mado 
a  fellow-creature  happier  by  her  visit,  and  she  felt  truly 
rewarded.  Her  path  home  lay  through  a  long  park  that 
belonged  to  the  castle,  and  as  she  was  passing  along,  med- 
itating upon  the  incidents  of  her  visit,  she  felt  a  hand  laid 
lightly  upon  her  shoulder,  and  turning  suddenly  around, 
she  beheld  the  Spirit  of  the  Hartz  Mountains.  She  had 
never  seen  the  spirit  before  ;  but  she  had  often  heard  a. 
description  of  the  form  which  this  wanderer  took  when 
she  desired  to  clothe  herself  with  a  material  body ;  and 
she  could  not  doubt  that  she  now  stood  in  her  presence. 
Her  <loiil)t,  if  any  she  had,  were  removed  as  the  intruder 
addressed  her. 

••  l.ady,  be  not  alarmed.  Mm  call  me  a  wandering  spirit, 
;m<l  so  I  am;  but  they  also  say  that  I  would  harm  them 
—  which  is  not  true.  I  am  with  the  guilty,  stir  up  the 
soul  with  remorse  ;  but  the  pure  and  innocent  have  noth- 
ing to  fear.  I  know  the  situation  in  which  you  are  placed ; 
I  know  the  conversation  which  took  place  last  evening 
between  yourself  and  your  father — nay,  start  not — I  heard 
it  all.  You  will  ere  long  want  assistance,  and  I  will  b« 


10  THE  SECRET  PANEL. 

near  to  render  it ;  and  in  the  mean  time  I  would  have  you 
prepare  your  feelings  for  a  severe  trial.  Your  father's 
every  feeling  is  a  crime — it  has  grown  upon  him." 

"  Pray,  explain  to  me,  if  you  can,"  exclaimed  Theresa, 
tremblingly,  seizing  the  old  woman's  arm,  "  what  is  it 
that  weighs  so  heavily  upon  my  father's  mind  ?  " 

"No,  not  now,  lady;  but  you  shall  know  ere  long. 
You  have  nothing  to  fear  from  his  interposition  against 
your  wishes ;  hia  present  plans  can  never  succeed,  fortify 
them  as  he  will.  There  is  an  eye  upon  his  movements  he 
wots  not  of.  Farewell." 

The  old  woman  waved  her  hand  as  Theresa  attempted 
to  speak,  and  disappeared  amongst  the  shrubbery.  The 
fair  girl  pursued  her  way  towards  the  castle  in  a  thought- 
ful -mood,  somewhat  surprised,  withal,  that  she  had  not 
been  alarmed  at  the  presence  of  the  wandering  spirit ; 
but  her  anxiety  was  in  another  direction  and  she  had  felt 
only  surprise  and  curiosity,  where  there  might  otherwise 
have  been  alarm.  When  she  arrived  at  the  courtyard 
she  found  a  number  of  horses  just  arrived,  and  was  in- 
formed that  the  riders  had  gone  into  the  castle.  Her 
heart  leaped  with  a  quick  motion  as  she  recognized  the 
livery  of  Colonel  Walstein,  and  hastily  entering  the 
building,  she  sought  her  own  chamber,  and  prepared  to 
meet  the  visitors. 

An  hour  afterwards  Walstein  and  Theresa  were  wan- 
dering together  in  the  park.  She  told  her  lover  all  that 
had  happened,  even  to  her  interview  with  the  mountain 
spirit,  and  begged  of  him  to  remain  till  matters  were 
settled.  She  had  a  fearful  foreboding  that  some  dreadful 
calamity  was  about  to  break  over  her  head ;  she  knew 
not  what,  neither  had  she  the  least  idea  of  its  nature  or 
source  ;  but  she  could  read  in  the  aspect  of  things  about 
her  a  tale  of  woe. 

Shortly  after  we  left  Walstein  and  Theresa  in  the  park, 


THE  SECRET  PANEL  11 

Baron  Waldrec  left  his  room  and  sought  his  brother. 
The  baron  was  a  powerfully  built  man,  about  fifty  years 
of  age,  with  a  frank,  benevolent  countenance,  upon  which 
were  marked  in  unmistakable  characters,  a  noble  soul 
and,  a  stout  heart.  He  found  his  brother  sitting  moodily 
in  his  own  chamber,  and  drawing  a  chair  to  his  side, 
addressed  him : 

a  Come,  Rudolph,  why  are  you  so  melancholy  lately? 
What  has  happened  that  should  thus  keep  you  confined  ? 
I  am  about  to  relinquish  my  command  in  the  army,  and 
shall  in  future  keep  you  company  most  of  the  time  ;  but 
you  must  throw  off  this  moody  fit  and  be  yourself.  Why, 
the  people  tell  me  that  you  do  nothing  lately  but  mope 
around  the  castle  like  a  man  hunting  for  his  brains ;  and 
here  I  have  been  at  home  a  week,  and  have  not  had  your 
company  an  hour  since  I  arrived." 

Rudolph  felt  uneasy  under  the  gaze  of  the  baron's  eye, 
nor  could  he  look  into  his  frank,  open  countenance,  with- 
out trembling,  and  when  he  learned  that  his  brother  had 
resigned  his  poet  in  the  service,  and  was  to  make  the 
castle  his  future  field  of  operations,  he  drew  a  quick 
breath  and  turned  a  shade  paler. 

u  I  am  really  glad  that  you  are  to  remain  with  us," 
replied  Rudolph,  composing  himself  as  much  as  possible ; 
"but  I  am  not  well.  If  I  am  not  so  friendly  as  I  should 
be,  you  will  know  what  cause  to  attribute  it  to — to  th« 
fact  that  I  am  laboring  under  a  severe  indisposition." 

"  I  am  sorry  that  you  are  so  unfortunate,"  replied  the 
baron,  "  but  you  will  soon  recover,  I  trust,  and  then  we 
may  expect  your  company.  I  have  a  subject,  however, 
that  I  desire  to  speak  to  you  upon  at  the  present  time, 
and  I  am  in  hopes  that  you  will  give  it  your  candid  con- 
sideration. You  are  well  acquainted  with  my  friend, 
Colonel  Walstein,  who  has  just  arrived  here,  and  who 
intends  to  spend  a  short  time  at  the  owtU.  He  i*  a  fin* 


12  THE  SECRET  PANEL. 

young  fellow,  and  is  an  honor  to  his  country,  and  I  feel 
proud  in  acknowledging  his  friendship.  He  has  long 
cherished  an  attachment  for  your  daughter,  and — why, 
what  is  the  matter?  Why  do  you  stare  so — are  you 
ill  ?  " 

"  No,  no ;  say  nothing  to  me  of  this." 

"  Why,  what  has  possessed  you,  my  dear  brother !  I 
was  about  to  ask  you  to  give  your  daughter's  hand  to 
this  young  man  ;  her  heart  I  am  sure  he  already  possesses 
— and  I  do  not  certainly  see  anything  objectionable  in 
the  proposition.  Theresa  is  old  enough  to  be  married, 
and  Egbert  Walstein  would  make  her  a  good  husband." 

"  Do  not  urge  this  matter  further — at  least,  till  I  have 
seen  my  daughter ;  for  she  has  never  spoken  of  such  a 
matter  to  me,  and  this  is  the  first  intimation  that  I  have 
had  of  it." 

The  baron  was  surprised  at  his  brother's  extraordinary 
behavior,  and  was  at  a  loss  to  divine  its  cause.  He,  saw, 
however,  that  there  was  something  deeper  than  he  could 
hope  to  fathom,  and  he  deemed  it  expedient  to  act  for  the 
present  upon  Rudolph's  suggestion,  and  wait  till  he  had 
spoken  with  his  daughter  upon  the  subject. 

It  was  growing  dark  as  the  baron  left  his  brother's 
room,  and  after  spending  an  hour  or  two  with  his  guests, 
during  which  time  he  explained  to  Walstein  the  result 
of  his  late  interview,  he  sought  his  chamber,  and  was 
about  to  retire  for  the  night,  when  he  heard  a  slight  tap 
upon  the  door,  which  he  answered  by  a  kind  "  Come  in." 

The  door  opened,  and  Theresa  Waldrec  entered  and 
took  a  seat  by  the  side  of  her  uncle. 

"  What  has  started  you  out,  my  fair  niece  ?  "  mildly 
asked  the  baron. 

"  Do  not  think  me  forward,  dear  uncle ;  but  Egbert  has 
told  me  that  you  have  seen  my  father,  and  has  also  in- 
formed me  of  the  result  of  your  conference.  Now  I  feel 


THE  SECRET  PANEL.  13 

sure  that  I  can  unbosom  my  case  to  you  without  fear  ol 
ill." 

"That  you  can,  dear  girl,"  tenderly  replied  the  old 
baron,  laying  his  hand  upon  her  head,  and  gazing  with  a 
fond  look  into  her  face. 

"  Well,  then,  before  I  see  my  father,  I  desire  that  you 
should  know  on  what  principle  he  is  acting.  I  would  not 
expose  my  father's  fault,  were  it  not  necessary  to  preserve 
myself  from  participating  in  it;  and  besides, I  know  that 
I  am  doing  it  to  one  who  will  be  kind  and  lenient  to 
him." 

• 

"  You  may  repose  the  most  implicit  confidence  in  me," 
iv marked  the  baron,  as  Theresa  hesitated  in  her  recital. 
"  Now  go  on,  and  you  may  .be  sure  of  my  aid  and  pro- 
tection." 

"My  father  has  become  acquainted  with  the  contents 
of  your  will;  he  informs  me  that  by  that  instrument 
Frederick  Enstein  is  one  of  the  principal  legatees,  while, 
I  and  himself  are  only  to  receive  a  small  annual  income. 
Accordingly,  he  has  set  his  heart  upon  my  union  with 
Frederic,  and  seems  determined  to  effect  it ;  and  I  am 
to  be  made  a  mere  tool  for  the  purpose  of  securing  this 
\\ealth.  Now,  how  shall  I  act?  I  can  never  marry 
Enstein,  were  I  so  disposed;  he  loves  another." 

"  Your  fi'-iher'g  assertions  relative  to  the  will  are  all 
true;  bv.t  now  he  came  in  possession  of  the  knowl- 
edge i  -mat*  than  1  can  teii  When  I  made  my  will  I 
was  engaged  in  war,  and  my  life  could  hardly  be  said  to 
be  my  own;  a,:d  at  that  time  i  expected  that  Frederic; 
would  have  been  your  husband,  and  had  the  instrument 
drawn  uj»  accordingly  ;  but  since  my  arrival  at 
\  have  found  out  the  true  state  of  affairs,  and  have  some 
houghts  of  altering  that  will;  but  without  doing  that,  I 
jh.ill  have  enough  i,,  make  yourself  and  Waist,  in  com- 
fortubli.  During  my  last  campaign  I  received  two  heavy 


14  THE  SECRET  PANEL. 

ransoms,  amounting  to  over  ten  thousand  ducats,  and  this 
I  intend  to  bestow  upon  you,  in  the  event  of  your  mar- 
riage. But  your  father  must  not  know  it — he  must  act 
upon  a  more  manly  principle." 

"  Oh,  I  thank  you,  my  dear  uncle,  for  your  kindness ; 
but  how  shall  I  appease  my  father  ?  " 

"  Refer  him  to  Frederic  Enstein.  Tell  him  that  you 
can  do  nothing,  till  he  first  obtains  some  sort  of  an  an- 
swer from  the  gentleman  in  question.  But  he  must  be 
very  foolish  indeed,  when  he  knows  that  Frederic  is 
bound  by  promises  to  another,  thus  to  persist  in  his 
scheme." 

Theresa  shuddered  as  she  thought  of  her  father's  plan 
in  relation  to  poor  Euphemia,  and  asked  her  uncle  if  he 
knew  the  girl  who  thus  stood  in  the  way  of  her  father's 
plans. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  baron,  "and  she  is  one  of  the 
loveliest  creatures  I  ever  saw ;  you  would  love  her  if  you 
1  ;it  knew  her." 

"  I  trust  I  shall  soon  become  better  acquainted  with 
l;,:r ;  I  have  seen  her.  But  I  hope  all  will  yet  be  well." 

As  Theresa  retired,  the  baron  went  to  his  desk,  and  un- 
it )cking  a  small  drawer,  took  therefrom  a  roll  of  parch- 
ment, which  he  opened  and  began  to  read.  It  was  his 
v/ill.  As  he  sat  meditating  upon  the  disposition  therein 
made  of  his  property,  with  the  instrument  lying  open 
upon  the  table  before  him,  he  heard  a  slight  rustling  by 
las  side,  and  ou  looking  ;Up,  he  started  back  in  amazement, 
as  his  eyes  rested  upon  the  tall,  commanding  figure  of 
the  Spirit  of  the  Hartz  Mountains. 

"  Baron  Waldec,  that  instrument  is  null  and  void." 

"How,  woman?"  exclaimed  he,  as  he  collected  his 
scattered  senses.  "  What  brought  you  here  ?  You  cer- 
tainly came  not  in  at  the  door.  la  it  true,  then,  that  you 
ride  about  upon  the  wind  ?  " 


THE  SECRET  PANEL.  15 

"Never  mind  how  I  came  here;  but  wherefore  you 
shall  knmv.  Again  I  tell  you,  that  instrument  is  good 
for  nothing." 

"  Perhaps  you  can  tell  me  why  ?  n 

The  stout  baron  trembled  beneath  the  piercing  gaze  of 
his  strange  visitor ;  why,  he  could  not  tell ;  he  was  un- 
used to  fear;  but  as  he  saw  the  gleaming  eyee  pet-ring 
out  from  ofci  eath  the  thi(;k  matted  hair  that  hung  down 
over  her  fac-s  and  shoulders,  his  heart  beat  tumultuously. 

"  You  sh&A  know  wiiat  you  require  soon  enough, "  re- 
plied the  intruder ;  "  but  not  now.  You  owe  me  a  pledge, 
and  thus  I  claim  its  redemption." 

Saying  this,  she  took  the  parchment  from  the  table  and. 
commenced  tearing  it  in  pieces. 

«  Now,  by  my  faith,"  exclaimed  the  baron,  as  he  started 
forward,  "  you  go  too  far." 

u  Stand  back,  Baron  Waldrec.     Look  here  ! " 

And  she  threw  the  heavy  mantel  from  off  her  boson, 
upon  which  glittered  a  heavy  jeweled  cross. 

"  NVhat !  "  faintly  gasped  the  baron  as  he  sank  trem- 
bling into  his  chair,  and  pressed  his  hand  upon  his  burn- 
ing brow,  "the  vision  of  my  fearful  dream?" 

u  Twas  not  a  dream,  Waldrec." 

He  removed  his  hand  from  bis  brow,  and  looked  up; 
but  his  visitor  was  gone.  ' 

Rudolph  Waldrec  had  spoken  with  his  daughter  upon 
the  subject  of  her  marriage  with  Frederic  Enstein,  and 
also  informed  her  that  she  must  not  think  for  a  m< 
of  young  Walstein.  Theresa  could  not  forbear  weeping ; 
but  she  expressed  no  wish  to  her  father — neither  did  she 
say  aught  against  his  proposals ;  but  she  merely  desired 
that  he  would  speak  with  Frederic,  and  obtain  from  him 
some  word  in  relation  to  the  affair  before  he  pressed  her 
further.  To  this  he  consented,  and  without  remark  with- 
drew. 


16  THE  SECRET  PANEL. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  the  day  that  Rudolph  took 
his  way  towards  the  cot  of  Joseph  Rothburt.  He  found 
the  old  man  in,  and  entering  and  closing  the  doors,  he 
seated  himself  by  his  side,  and  opened  upon  the  business 
of  his  visit. 

"  You  have  a  daughter,  called  Euphemia,  have  you 
not?" 

"  I  have,"  replied  the  old  man. 

"  Could  you  allow  her  to  visit  the  castle  for  p  few  days? 
The  Lady  Theresa  desires  her  attendance." 

"  Well,  that  depends  pretty  much  upon  "her  own  de- 
cision. I  will  call  her  and  see." 

The  girl  was  called,  and  upon  being  questioned,  she  ex- 
pressed  a  ready  willingness  to  accompany  their  visitor, 
provided  her  father  would  go  to  the  castle  with  her. 
This  did  not  exactly  suit  the  purpose  of  Rudolph ;  but 
he  had  no  alternative,  and  accordingly  he  made  no  objec- 
tion to  the  plan  proposed,  and  the  little  party  soon  set 
out  for  the  walk.  They  had  not  proceeded  more  than 
half  way  through  the  long  park,  when  a  slight  rustling 
in  the  bushes  caused  old  Joseph  to  turn  his  head,  and  at 
that  moment  he  was  seized  in  the  powerful  grasp  of  a 
man  who  sprang  from  the  shrubbery  and  dragged  him  to 
the  earth.  A  second  ruffian  treated  Rudolph  in  the  same 
manner,  while  the  trembling  girl  was  gagged  and  borne 
off  through  the  park,  by  a  third.  Rudolph  offered  a  seem- 
ing resistance,  but  it  was  slight,  and  he  was  easily  bound 
to  a  neighboring  tree,  when  his  captor  went  to  his  com- 
panion's assistance,  and  the  old  man  was  also  securely 
fastened. 

Rudolph  cursed  and  swore  and  for  about  fifteen  minutes 
apparently  used  every  exertion  to  release  himself.  At 
length  he  managed  to  get  his  hands  free,  and  was  soon  hi 
a  situation  to  assist  his  neighbor,  who  had  as  yet  said  but 
Yery  little.  "When  they  were  both  clear  of  confinement^ 


THE  SECRET  PANEL."  IT 

the  old  man  wept  like  a  child.  He  was  only  conscious 
that  he  had  been  robbed  of  all  his  earthly  comfort,  and 
for  a  few  moments  the  thought  of  pursuit  entered  not  into 
his  head;  but  a  little  reflection, and  the  consolation  of  his 
companion,  soon  aroused  him,  and  he  joined  in  a  plan  of 
pursuit.  But  all  search  was  fruitless.  The  inmates  of 
the  castle  were  all  started  out,  but  to  no  effect.  No  traces 
of  the  abductors  or  the  girl  could  be  found,  and  at  dark 
the  pursuit  was  given  up. 

Theresa  heard  the  tale  from  her  father's  lips ;  but  she 
evaded  his  questions,  and  disbelieved  his  statement.  It 
was  hard  for  her  to  look  her  father  in  the  face,  for  she 
believed  him  to  be  a  guilty  man,  and  she  embraced  the 
iirst  opportunity  to  release  herself  from  his  presence,  and 
seek  her  own  chamber.  Then  she  gave  way  to  a  flood  of 
tears,  and  amid  the  conflicting  emotions  of  love,  and  fear, 
.she  wept  herself  to  sleep. 

That  night  there  were  strange  noises  heard  about  the 
old  castle.  Doors  were  opened  and  shut — heavy  footsteps 
•unded  through  the  old  archways — and  deep  down  in 
the  bowels  of  tin;  heavy  building  resounded  low,  rumbling 
moans.  About  midnight  a  troop  of  horsemen  arrived, 
and  demanded  admittance  at  the  gate.  The  old  porter 
raised  the  portcullis,  and  Frederic  Enstein,  together  with 
his  attendants,  entered  the  courtyard.  The  baron 
soon. up, and  his  young  friend  received  a  hearty  welcome; 
but  the  joy  of  that  welcome  was  lost,  when  he  received 
the  intelligence  of  Euphemia's  abduction,  lie  had  been 
to  the  cottage,  but  could  only  learn  that  old  Joseph  and 
his  daughter  had  gone  to  the  castle.  He  would  imme- 
diately have  started  out  in  search  of  his  promised  bride, 
but  the  baron  dissuaded  him  from  the  purpose,  and  it 
was  settled  that  in  the  morning  all  hands  should  join  ia 
a  general  and  thorough  search. 

The  new-comers  were  soon  ensconced  in  their  respect- 


18  THE  SECRET  PANEL. 

ive  beds  and  quietness  was  beginning  to  settle  down  over 
the  castle,  when  a  most  piercing  cry  issued  from  the 
chamber  of  Sir  Rudolph.  The  baron  had  not  fallen 
asleep,  and  hastily  dressing  himself,  he  proceeded  at  once 
to  the  room  of  his  brother.  He  found  Rudolph  sitting  up 
in  his  bed,  with  his  hands  clasped  tightly  over  his  eyes, 
and  his  limbs  trembling  at  every  joint. 

"  What  has  happened  ?  "  asked  the  baron,  as  he  stepped 
near  to  his  brother's  bedside. 

"  See !  there  !  there !  "  exclaimed  the  terror-stricken 
man,  extending  his  hands  toward  the  further  part  of  the 
room. 

"  I  see  nothing,"  answered  the  baron,  as  he  looked  in 
the  direction  pointed  out. 

«  Thank  heaven,  she's  gone  !  Oh,  God  !  what  a  fearful 
eight ! " 

"  Why,  you've  been  dreaming,  Rudolph." 

"  Dreaming  ?  Yes,  'twas  a  dream  ;  but  the  Lord  pre- 
serve me  from  another  such." 

After  vainly  endeavoring  to  obtain  some  explicit  state- 
ment from  his  brother  of  what  had  really  happened,  the 
baron  once  more  sought  his  pillow,  and  endeavored  to 
compose  himself  to  sleep. 

The  morning  dawned,  and  at  an  early  hour  the  inmates 
of  the  castle  were  assembled  hi  the  courtyard,  all  ready  to 
mount  their  horses  for  the  contemplated  search,  when  a 
single  horseman  approached  the  gate  and  entered.  It  was 
a  priest.  He  had  promised  Frederic  he  would  be  in  at- 
tendance to  perform  the  marriage  ceremony.  But  he 
found  himself  called  upon  to  perform  a  different  office 
- — that  of  administering  consolation  to  a  soul  deeply 
afflicted. 

Another  horse  galloped  into  the  court;  but  a  cold 
shudder  ran  through  the  assembly  as  their  eyes  rested 
upon  the  rider.  It  was  the  Spirit  of  the  Hartz  Mountains. 


THE  SECRET  PANEL.  19 

She  slid  from  the  saddle,  and  waving  her  hand  for  the 
people  to  follow  her,  she  entered  the  castle  and  proceeded 
at  once  to  a  large  hall,  where  she  was  soon  joined  by 
the  baron  and  his  friends.  Rudolph,  alone,  followed  not. 
The  new-comer  noticed  this,  and  called  for  him;  but 
his  limbs  would  hardly  support  him,  and  when  he 
had  been  assisted  to  the  hall,  he  looked  more  dead  than 
alive.  He  dared  not  meet  the  gaze  of  the  Mountain 
Spirit. 

Not  a  breath  broke  upon  the  stillness  that  reigned  in 
that  old  hall,  as  the  spectral  visitor  gazed  around  upon 
the  assembly.  She  stooped  down  and  placed  her  hand 
upon  the  edge  of  a  panel  near  the  wall,  and,  with  a  sud- 
den motion  threw  it  back  from  its  place,  and  as  she  stepped 
back,  the  form  of  Euphemia  Rothburt  issued  from  the 
aperture. 

Frederic  Enstein  gave  one  bound  and  clasped  to  his 
bosom  the  restored  object  of  his  affection.  A  surprise  al- 
most akin  to  terror  was  stamped  upon  the  features  of  the 
crowd ;  Rudolph  betrayed  the  keenest  anguish.  The 
Mountain  Spirit  stepped  forward,  and  placing  the  hand 
of  the  fair  girl  in  that  of  Frederic,  she  led  them  to  the 
astoni si ifil  baron,  and  said  : 

"  Give  them  your  blessing,  Baron  Waldrec." 
A  fervent  M  God  bless  my  children  ! "  trembled  upon 
the  old  man's  lips. 

'•  \Valclrec,  you  have  blessed  your  daughter  ! n 
The  long,  black  robe  fell  from  that  strange  form — she 
threw  the  flowing  brown  hair  back   from  her  face,  and 
gazing  for  a  moment  upon  the  tear-wet  features  of  thu 
baron,  she  fell  with  a  bursting  heart  upon  his  )»• 
The  old  man  started  back,  and  gazed  for  a  moment  into 
that  faeo.     Then  he  opened  his  arms — one  word  escaped 
from  his  lips—«  Euphemia  ! "  and  he  clasped  to  his  bosom 
bis  long-1 


20  THE  SECRET  PANEL. 

Rudolph  Waldrec  started  from  his  position — gare  one 
groan  and  his  guilt-burdened  spirit  was  away  from 
earth. 

"  Poor  Rudolph,  how  much  he  has  suffered,"  exclaimed 
the  baroness,  as  she  arose  from  the  bosom  of  her  husband 
and  gazed  upon  the  corpse.  She  continued  :  "  You  shall 
know  what  all  this  means.  It  is  now  more  than  nineteen 
years  since  I  attempted  to  cross  the  lake  in  my  little  skiff. 
Rudolph  Waldrec  saw  me  overturned  within  a  short  dis- 
tance of  the  shore,  and  he  might  easily  have  saved  me ; 
but  my  cries  he  heeded  not,  and  with  a  cold  look  he 
turned  from  the  bank,  and  left  me  to  my  fate.  But  an 
vM  fortune-teller  was  near  and  drew  me  to  the  shore ; 
but  before  she  released  me,  she  obtained  from  me  a  prom- 
ise that  I  would  not  leave  her  till  she  consented.  In  a 
few  days  my  child  was  born,  and  as  I  lay  upon  a  rough 
couch  hi  her  nut,  gazing  with  rapture  upon  the  innocent 
face  of  my  infant,  she  took  it  from  me,  and  before  she 
fvould  return  it,  she  had  laid  me  under  a  most  fearful 
oath.  She  told  me  she  would  die  before  I  left  my  bed, 
and  I  was  to  take  her  place — assume  her  garb  and  calling, 
without  revealing  myself  to  a  living  soul  till  the  preser- 
vation of  a  human  life  rendered  it  necessary.  Her  pre- 
diction was  fulfilled. 

"As  soon  as  I  was  able  to  go  out,  I  placed  my  child 
under  the  care  of  Joseph  and  !I£.TJ  jo*isce  lived  upon  the 
topes  this  moment  realized,  LiC-iy  secrst  i^ja-c  well 
known  to  myself  aboiiS  tiis  cab.:3  ua<$3  oiten  ;urwered 
my  objects ;  and  howr  ater  hour  L  ^V3  S£ ;  oy  the  bed- 
side of  my  husoand,  snd  drank  in  piare  deiight  in  watch- 
ing his  3aim  ieafcuces.  Rudolph,  too,  has  been  made  the 
recipient  01  my  nocturnal  visits.  But  the  danger  of  my 
ch-.gn^ej  released  me  from  my  vow,  and  I  am  now 
nappy." 

Every  heart  there  beat  in  joyful  concord.    Theresa' 


THE  SECRET  PANEL.  21 

Countenance  wore  a  shade  of  sadness  ;  but  'twas  not  deep 
laid.  And  the  same  day  that  saw  Frederic  and  Euphemia 
united,  beamed  also  upon  the  union  of  Walstein  anil 


THK    END. 


BRIGHT 
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